UC-NRLF 


• 


Ijausr  to  tk  Sf;u 

-^ 


THE 


HOUSE  BY  THE  SEA. 


BY 

THOMAS    BUCHANAN    READ. 


"  Magic  casements  opening  on  the  foam 
Of  perilous  seas."— KEATS. 


PHILADELPHIA: 
PARKY    &     M"M  I  L  LAN, 

SUCCESSORS  TO  A.  HART,  LATK  CAREY  &  HART. 

1855, 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1855,  by 

PARRY  &  MCMILLAN, 

in  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Eastern 
District  of  Pennsylvania. 


STEREOTYPED   BY   L.  JOHNSON  AND   CO. 
PHILADELPHIA. 


PRINTED  BY  T.   K.  &  P.  O.  COLLINS. 


KJ6^- 


He  told  a  tale  as  wild  as  sad; 
And  they  who  listened  deemed  it  mad — 
Mad  as   the  delirious  dream 
Of  one  who,    en  an  Indian  stream 
Floating  in  a  Morphean  bark, 
Feeds  on    the  charmed  lotus   leaf — 
While  under  the  palms,   in  visions  brief, 
Through  shadows  of  sunset,   golden-dark, 
The  camels  and  camelopards   stand 
With  plumed  tribes  en  the  yellow  sand, 
To  gaze  with  steadfast,  wondering  eyes 
Where  the  feeding  dreamer  floating  lies. 


M272107 


TO 


uram 


AS    AX     EVIDENCK     OF     F  Ki  10  N  1)  S  HIP    AND     ADMIRATION, 


0cm 


IS   INSCRIBED  BY  THE  AUTHOR. 


Sagni  di  Lueoa,  1 
Sept.  lat,  1855.   > 


loose  k  tlje  Sea 


IN  TWO  PARTS. 


!art  Jfirst 


ON  a  little,  seaward-sloping  lawn, 

The  first  bright  half-hour  after  dawn  — 

With  golden  hair  and  cheeks  as  red 

As  the  hue  in  the  brightening  orient  spread, 

The  child  and  the  light  of  the  fisherman's  home, 

Bearing  a  pail  that  dript  its  foam 

Like  snowflakes  on  the  wayside  grass, 

Went  singing  as  if  her  soul  would  pass 

Into  the  air,  and  o'ertake  that  bird 

Which  sang  in  the  sky  less  seen  than  heard. 

Her  path  was  along  the  sweetbrier  lane, 

Dividing  the  sea  from  the  clover  plain: 

13 


14  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Below  the  billows  inland  bore, 

And  threw  their  foam-wreaths  on  the  shore: 

Above,  the  orchards,  lightly  blown, 

Scattered  their  snowy  garlands  down, 

As  if  the  very  trees  would  spread 

A  pure  white  path  for  her  virgin  tread. 

She  plucked  a  violet  from  the  hedge, 
And  then  a  flower  from  the  perilous  edge 
Of  a  cliff  where  foamed  the  sea's  white  ire, — 
And  now  a  bloom  from  the  wayside  brier; 
Then  placed  them  in  her  russet  vest, 
To  sway  to  the  heaving  of  her  breast. 

Descending  the  steep  of  the  seaside  rocks, 
In  pathways  worn  by  the  shepherd's  flocks, 
She  saw  the  Stranger,  whose  cliff-perched  home 
Stood  higher  than  ever  the  wild  sea-foam 
Could  leap;    and  only  the  gust  of  spray, 
Seeking  the  cloud,  passed  up  that  way. 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  15 

It  might  be  a  moon  of  dawns,  perchance, 
Since  first  the  stranger  met  her  glance, 
And  never  at  any  later  time 
Than  the  crimson  flush  of  the  morning's  prime. 
With  the  latest  star  he  walked  the  shore, 
And  when  that  failed  was  seen  no  more. 

They  grew  acquainted  —  yet  did  not  speak: 

There  was  a  sadness  on  his  cheek 

His  smile  made  sadder;   and  his  look 

Seemed  to  reflect  some  parchment  book 

Writ  in  a  cave  by  a  wizard  gray 

To  spirit  both  body  and  soul  away. 

Her  heart's  deep  instinct  read  in  his  eye 

How  he  had  sought  that  height  to  die; 

And,  as  one  bears  flowers  of  sweetest  bloom 

To  brighten  a  sick  man's  twilight  room, 

When  now  they  met,  with  resistless  grace 

She  stood  before  him  —  scarce  looked  in  his  face, 

Tendered  the  blossoms,  then  quickened  her  pace. 


16  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

He  pressed  them  to  his  lips,  and  then 
Strolled  round  to  his  cloudy  home  again. 

He  climbed  to  his  gusty  balcony, 

That  overbrowed  the  eastern  sea: 

Like  a  spirit  in  a  dusky  cloud, 

O'erleaning  the  world  in  wonder  bowed, 

Pale  Roland  leaned,  and  gazed  below 

Into  the  gulfs — until  on  the  flow 

Of  the  billows  his  fancies  seemed  to  go: 

And  thus  to  the  air  and  the  spirits  of  air, 

Those  delicate  listeners  everywhere, 

He  winged  his  thoughts  with  careless  words, 

Till  they  sailed  the  ocean  like  sea-born  birds. 


THE     HOC»E     BY     THE    SEA.  17 


II. 


"My  house  is  built  on  the  cliff's  tall  crest, 
As  high  as  an  eagle  might  choose  her  nest: 
The  builders  have  descended  the  hill, 
Like  spirits  who  have  done  their  master's  will. 
Below,  the  billows  in  endless  reach 
Commune  in  uncornprehended  speech  — 
A  language  still  —  there  is  no  sound 
But  symbols  something  though  unfound. 

"Here  from  the  world  I  can  safely  lean 
And  feel,  if  not  hear,  what  the  billows  mean; 
And  dropping  this  flower,  I  can  watch  it  sway 
Till  it  diminishes  into  the  spray. 
The  little  alien  from  its  hillside  home 
Is  clasped  and  whirled  in  the  heartless  foam  I 

2 


18  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

Oh,  reckless  hand!  it  was  the  flower 

The  peasant-girl  gave  me  this  very  hour! 

Well,  it  is  gone  —  so  let  it  be: 

Not  Indus  could  restore  to  me, 

With  all  its  dew  and  odour  fine, 

Fresh  and  free  from  the  bitter  brine, 

That  victim  of  a  heedless  hand! 

But  it  must  be  fretted  along  the  sand 

Till  drowned  and  crushed,  a  noisome  thing 

At  last,  where  the  foulest  seaweeds  cling! 

"Thus  with  the  maid  it  may  be,  perchance, 
Borne  away  from  her  vernal  haunts 
To  make  some  heartless  breast  look  bright, 
Then  carried  to  some  dizzy  height 
And  dropt  from  a  hand  relentlessly 
Into  the  gulfs  of  a  pitiless  sea — 
Into  the  tumultuous  fret  and  foam 
To  perish — an  alien  far  from  home! 


THE   HOUSE    IJY    THE    SEA.  19 

"Here  I  stand,  like  a  Persian  priest, 
Gazing  forever  into  the  east, 
And  bow  my  head  before  the  sun, 
The  symbol  of  a  mightier  One. 

"Beheld  from  here,  with  march  unending, 
By  night  and  by  day  the  sky  is  ascending; 
This  is  the  vision  of  youth  —  the  scope 
Where  rises  the  golden  scale  of  Hope, — 
When  the  heart  in  its  freshness  stout  and  hale 
Recks  not  of  the  opposing  scale, 
Which,  though  unseen  in  the  future  air, 
Sinks  and  sinks  with  its  weight  of  despair. 

"Nothing  sets  save  yonder  sail 
Chased  away  by  an  outward  gale, 
And  every  hour  to  my  straining  gaze 
Some  new  bark  issues  through  the  haze, — 
Fresh  perchance  from  the  Orient, 
Its  sails  with  spicy  breezes  bent, 


20  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Like  that  barge  on  the  Cydnus  seen 
Laden  with  odours  that  veiled  a  queen. 
It  comes  from  what  mysterious  land? 
With  freight  of  Bagdat  or  Samarcand? 
From  under  the  guns  of  Arabian  forts, 
Or  out  of  Al-Raschid's  golden  ports? 
From  India,  or  the  barbarous  isles 
Where  the  Pacific  summer  smiles? 
I  envy  the  sea-bird  sailing  there 
In  the  trackless  ocean  of  blue  air ; 
It  can  see  and  it  can  hear 
What  may  never  meet  my  eye  or  ear. 

"I  look  to  the  east  — all  things  ascend, 
And  with  them  the  eye  and  the  heart  must  tend,- 
Only  the  heavy  earth  opprest, 
Turning  forever  out  of  the  west, 
Rolls  down  and  down:  the  fancy  feels 
The  sinking,  and  the  spirit  reels ! 


THE    HOUSE   BY   THE    SEA.  21 

What  was  the  east  an  hour  ago 

Even  while  I  gaze  is  no  longer  so  — 

I  am  plunging  now  through  its  azure  veil, 

While  another  rises  dim  and  pale, 

And  this  must  shortly  sink  afar 

To  hold  in  the  west  the  evening-star. 

"Here  clinging  we  are  daily  cast 
Into  the  future,  out  of  the  past, — 
Through  the  sunshine  into  the  night, — 
Through  the  darkness  into  the  light. 
Thus  we  whirl  in  the  noiseless  stream, 
And  the  sky  glides  over  us  like  a  dream, 
Full  of  stars  and  mystery 
And  prophecy  of  things  to  be. 

"This  very  moment  we  hold  a  place 
Never  filled  before  in  space  — 
Where  never  again  the  world  shall  reel  — 
The  same  wave  never  revisits  the  wheel. 


22  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

Year  by  year  our  course  is  run 

In  a  voyage  around  the  sun; 

In  million  circlings  forth  and  back 

We  never  retrace  a  once  gone  track. 

Did  the  countless  earths  abroad,  like  snails, 

Leave  behind  them  shining  trails, 

"What  a  web  of  strange  design 

Through  the  eternal  space  would  shine ! 

And  such  a  web  of  marvellous  lines 

Left  by  each  satellite  and  sun, 

Though  by  us  unseen,  still  clearly  shines 

To  the  observant  eye  of  One. 

"And  did  the  countless  souls  of  men 
Leave  life-trails  visible  to  the  ken, 
Each  hued  with  colour  to  betray 
The  character  which  passed  that  way, 
How  intricate  and  variously  hued 
Would  seem  the  woof  of  pathways  rude 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  23 

Across  the  world's  great  surface  laid ! 
And  so  inwoven  with  lines  of  shade. 
Of  vice  and  cruelty,  anger  and  hate, 
That  darkness  would  preponderate ! 
And  such  a  woof  of  tangled  trails 
Lies  o'er  the  world  and  never  pales — 
Never  varies.     On  earth's  great  page 
Each  soul  records  its  pilgrimage, 
And  under  the  eye  of  Grod  each  shines 
As  visible  in  eternal  lines, 
As  on  the  cliff  I  see  from  here 
The  various  strata  lines  appear. 

"  Thank  Heaven !  my  path  shall  no  longer  run 
With  the  common  highways  under  the  sun ! 
From  the  ways  of  men  it  shall  lie  apart, 
On  a  new  and  a  separate  chart; 
No  other  foot  shall  e'er  intrude 
In  my  skiey  holds  of  solitude. 


24  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

Henceforth  alone  I  walk  afar 

In  the  dream  which  death  shall  scarcely  mar, 

Far  above  the  obtrusive  ken 

And  idle  inquiry  of  men. 

Already  I  can  here  rehearse 

The  higher  life  of  the  universe, 

Commune  with  those  spirits  whose  white  tents 

Are  never  stirred  by  these  elements, 

Camped  on  the  dim  ethereal  fields 

With  meteor  banners  and  starry  shields ! 

"Henceforth  my  sole  companion  shall  be 
My  sorrow  embodied;  and,  hermit-like,  we 
Will  renounce  the  world  and  rest  at  ease, 
Content  with  our  own  sweet  sympathies. 
Tell  me  no  more  of  that  larger  plan, 
The  charity  for  and  the  faith  in  man : 
I  have  tried  it  well,  and  ever  found 
The  seven  sins  filling  its  utmost  bound ! 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  25 

And  they  who  live  in  the  world  must  be 
One  with  the  world,  or  content  to  see 
Their  dearest  rights  and  their  holiest  trust 
With  heels  of  steel  trampled  into  the  dust ! 
All  this  I  have  suffered,  and  scarcely  restrained 
At  times  the  revenge  whose  swift  blow  would  have 

gained 

The  bad  world's  respect,  and  left  me  exempt 
A  little  from  all  save  my  soul's  self-contempt. 
I  was  as  a  weed  that  is  chafed  on  the  beach; 
But,  Heaven  be  praised !  being  thrown  out  of  reach, 
I  have  taken  firm  root  in  the  cliff,  where  no  more 
The  billows  affright  with  their  roll  and  their  roar. 
I  have  tasted  the  best  which  the  world  can  bestow, 
But  friendship  turned  bitter — love  ended  in  wo ! 

"In  the  school  of  envy,  and  malice,  and  strife, 
I  have  studied  and  learned  the  lesson  of  life; 
Studied  it  well  from  that  dreary  hour 
When  the  dark-hearted  Fates  had  power, 


26  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE    SEA. 

Ministering  at  my  birtli  —  who  threw 
Upon  my  brow  their  black  baptismal  dew ! 
From  that  sad  night  what  time  my  spirit's  bark, 
Sailing  over  the  sea  of  space, 
In  a  moment  ominous  and  dark, 
Was  stranded  on  this  desert  place, — 
This  treacherous  reef  of  time, 
This  rank  and  poisonous  clime 
Called  earth,  where  savage  men 
In  hut  or  palace  make  their  hateful  den, — 
I  have  known  little  peace  and  less  of  joy ! 
And  even  when  a  pleasure-seeking  boy, 
Unlovely  faces  with  distempered  tongue 
Were  my  attendants,  and  they  ever  hung 
Inseparably  about  me,  like  the  shades 
From  a  baleful  torchlight  flung, 
Which  the  torch-bearer  not  evades 
Until  the  light  be  drenched, 
And  in  the  oblivious  sea  of  death  and  darkness 
quenched. 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  27 

And  I  have  borne  this  torch  — 

This  flickering  life  —  and  still  must  bear, 

Watching  it  flaunt  and  flare, 

Where  all  my  hopes,  like  night-moths,  fly  and  scorch 

Their  airy  pinions,  till  their  writhing  forms 

Drop  round  my  feet  a  mass  of  wingless  worms ! 

"  But,  lo !    the  tempest  of  the  world  is  past ! 
Its  passion-bolts  are  no  longer  cast 
About  me,  and  I  feel  as  one 
Who  stands  to  gaze  when  life  is  done  ! 
Even  the  peasant  with  her  bright  blue  eye 
Seemed  but  the  remnant  of  a  cloud  gone  by; 
Or  rather  let  me  deem  her  form 
The  farewell  rainbow  of  the  storm. 
I  am  glad  that  in  leaving  this  gallery 
Of  horrors  that  have  frowned  on  me, 
A  living  thing  so  pure  and  bright 
Should  have  closed  the  hateful  place  from  sight. 


28  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

"How  sweet  it  is  to  find  release 
In  this  aerial  tower  of  peace! 
In  this  antechamber  of  the  sky 
Next  to  the  halls  of  eternity — 
With  only  one  thin  door  between 
This  and  the  outer  world  serene, 
Waiting  to  take  that  one  step  more 
When  opens  the  celestial  door, 
And  then,  with  the  sudden  splendour  blind, 
Hear  the  great  portals  close  behind!" 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  29 


III. 

'TWAS  evening,  and  he  mounted  high 
Up  to  the  terrace  that  faced  the  sky. 
The  fisherman,  in  his  boat  below 
Swinging  to  the  billows'  flow, 
Beheld  him  like  a  guard  of  old 
On  a  dusky  tower  —  a  shadow  bold 
Standing  against  the  sundown  gold. 

There  Koland  watched  the  dome  of  day 
In  a  conflagration  fall  away, 
And  saw  the  first  white  star  that  sped 
To  gaze  at  the  sunset  ere  it  fled. 
Westward  he  saw  the  spires  and  domes 
Overtopping  the  noisy  homes 
Of  toil  and  trade,  but  all  so  far 
He  felt  no  tremor  of  the  jar 


30  THE    HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA. 

That  like  a  daily  earthquake  rolls 
Through  the  world  of  dust-bound  souls. 

Out  of  the  east  the  moon  arose 

Red  as  Mont  Blanc  at  morning  glows; 

Over  the  sea,  like  a  ship  on  fire, 

She  sailed  with  her  one  star  sailing  by  her. 

Long,  long  he  gazed,  till  he  felt  the  might 

And  glory  that  pervade  the  night. 

Awhile  he  looked  upon  the  seas, 

Then  gazed  to  the  shadowy  orchard  trees, 

And  saw  the  fisherman's  quiet  home 

Sitting  under  the  vernal  dome 

Of  one  great  elm,  where  the  fireflies  played 

"With  their  feast  of  lanterns  nightly  made. 

He  saw  the  various  shadows  pass 
.    Over  the  illumined  glass, — 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  31 

Saw  tapers,  moving  to  arid  fro, 

From  window  to  window  come  and  go, 

Like  those  lights  which  phantom  hands 

"Wave  at  night  o'er  marshy  lands, — 

Saw  the  maid  at  her  casement  lean, 

And  her  shade  steal  into  the  night  serene. 

"Thus  from  the  casements  of  life,"  he  mused, 

"Our  shadows  are  outward  cast,  confused 

Into  a  greater  shade.     What  eye 

Shall  trace  these  phantoms  where  they  fly? 

None: — And  it  much  behooves  us  all 

That  the  lights  from  whence  these  shadows  fall 

Should  be  guarded  well  and  trimmed  with  care, 

That  the  flame  shall  neither  sink  nor  flare, 

Protected  from  the  fitful  gusts 

Blown  from  the  lips  of  Caliban  lusts." 

Here  and  there  a  meteor  fleet, 
Struck  from  the  invisible  feet 


32  THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA. 

Of  Night' s  wild  coursers,  fierce  and  black. 

Streamed  over  the  star-paven  track: 

Or  it  may  be  this  voiceless  leven, 

Launched  from  the  unseen  clouds  of  heaven, 

Are  bolts  by  spirit-tempests  hurled 

Into  a  purgatorial  world. 

Or  they  may  be  in  the  fields  of  blue 

Offsprings  of  nameless  damps  and  dew, — 

Celestial  will-o' -wisps  at  play, 

Leading  benighted  souls  astray. 

Midnight  was  near.     With  a  look  divine 

He  saw  the  maid  at  her  chamber  shrine. 

Two  little  tapers  with  flaming  wicks 

Burned  beside  a  crucifix. 

And  while  she  prayed,  it  seemed 

Over  her  face  a  splendour  beamed, — 

A  light  of  purity  and  grace 

Shed  from  the  suffering  Saviour's  face. 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  33 

Her  angel  look  was  upward  turned; 
Her  white  breast  heaved  as  if  it  yearned 
To  breathe  her  very  soul  away 
In  a  prayer  which  words  had  failed  to  say. 
Her  upturned  face  —  her  fallen  hair, 
Her  hands  clasped  on  her  bosom  fair, 
Her  heaving  breast  but  half  concealed, 
The  fulness  of  her  prayer  revealed. 

As  the  watcher  gazed,  he  felt  his  brain 
Branded  with  a  forgotten  pain; 
And  thoughts  he  had  deemed  frozen,  dead, 
Warmed  snakelike,  by  his  heart's  flame  fed, 
Till  thus  the  voice  of  a  demon  guest 
With  scornful  laugh  its  joy  expressed :  — 
"  The  hawk  looks  down  on  the  ring-dove's  nest; 
He  loves  her  meek  voice  and  her  smooth  meek  breast! 
And  the  beautiful  bird  shall  still  be  as  meek 
When  her  red  heart  quivers  in  the  falcon's 
3 


34  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

"Horrible  fiend!"  he  cried,  in  pain, 

"Back  to  your  baneful  den  again! 
Oh,  Death,  stand  by  me  in  this  hour, 
And  strike  me  ere  the  fiend  have  power ! 
Have  I  not,  with  a  terrible  oath, 
On  the  breast  of  the  dying  sworn  my  troth  ? 
Did  I  not  swear  when  Death  was  at  strife, 
In  the  white  dome  of  her  bosom,  with  life, — 
Though  I  had  wronged  her  living  trust, — 
To  be  true,  ay,  as  true  as  the  tomb  to  her  dust? 
For  this  she  forgave  the  great  wrong  I  had  wrought, 
And  mingled  my  name  in  her  last  sweet  thought, 
And  promised  that,  in  an  hour  of  fear, 
Her  soul  should  be  as  a  guardian  near  I" 

As  he  spoke,  the  great  tears  swam  over  his  gaze, 

Till  the  white  moon  reeled  in  delirious  haze, 

And    the    stars    were     unsteady    as     gust-winnowed 

chaff— 
Still  his  innermost  soul  heard  the  mad  demon  laugh. 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  35 

"Look!  look  again!"     Thus  cried  the  fiend, 
aOne  look  before  the  vision  is  screened — 

Oh,  never  was  Parian  so  fair  to  the  sight! 

Oh,  never  such  beauty  pulsed  love  through  the  night !" 

But  still  the  pale  man,  like  some  martyr  who  dies, 
Looked  into  the  sky  with  fixed  agonized  eyes, 
Sighing,  "Ida!  dear  Ida!     The  hour  of  fear, 
Like  a  tiger  in  wait  for  its  prey,  crouches  here ! 
I  see  its  red  eyes  and  I  feel  its  hot  breath ! — 
Come  forth,  thou  sweet  friend,  from  the  gateways  of 

Death ! 
Press  me  close — side  to  side — soul  to  soul — mind 

to  mind  — 
Or  lead  through  that  path  thou  too  early  didst  find  I" 

As  he  spoke,  soft  lips,  like  sunshine  warm, 

Kissed  from  his  brow  the  late  alarm  — 

Pale  delicate  arms  his  neck  caressed, 

And  the  head  of  a  spirit  was  laid  on  his  breast! 


36  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

The  silken  hair  that  fell  unfurled 

Still  gleamed  with  the  hue  of  another  world : 

So  soft  were  her  tresses,  each  breath  of  the  gale 

Caressed  them  in  air  like  a  gossamer  veil; 

And  her  garments  still  breathed  of  ethereal  dew 

In  fields  where  no  mortal  has  ever  passed  through. 

Then  the  fiend  exclaimed  with  louder  jeers — 
While  the  spirit  pressed  her  hands  to  her  ears, 
And  gazed  with  that  imploring  look 
Which  only  a  demon's  eye  could  brook  — 
"This  hour,  thou  wretched  ghost!  is  thine  — 
But  the  next  and  the  next  shall  all  be  mine! 
The  cup  is  brewing  which  he  shall  quaff, 
While   the   angels   shall   weep   and   the   fiends   shall 

laugh ! 

Then  thou  shalt  be  scourged  away  with  scorn 
Into  the  outer  dark  forlorn, 
And  a  mortal  head  usurp  the  breast 
Which  late  thy  phantom  cheek  has  prest! 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  37 

Blood  warms  to  blood  —  dust  cleaves  to  dust  — 
And  in  that  hour  depart  thou  must, 
Thou  dead  leaf  on  a  midnight  gust!" 

Then  even  as  a  pale  dead  leaf 

Still  clinging  where  its  hour  is  brief, 

The  spirit-lady  in  her  grief 

Shuddered  and  sighed,  as  if  even  now 

The  wind  was  plucking  her  from  the  bough. 

"0  Roland!"   she  cried,  " there's  one  hour  of  dread, 
Blackening  like  that  cloud  overhead ; 
A  bitter  wind  is  rising  fast, 
Like  this  which  brings  the  ocean  blast !" 
"It  shall  not  be!"  the  bold  man  cried; 
"No  wind  shall  bear  thee  from  my  side! 
Let  us  descend  to  the  altar  shrine, 
And  kneel  before  the  cross  divine. 
'Tis  an  altar  by  repentance  built, 
In  memory  of  my  former  guilt, 


38  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

That  a  daily  prayer  might  there  be  made, 
To  ransom  thy  departed  shade." 

Then  they  descended.     The  east  winds  came, 

Trampling  the  sea  into  phosphor  flame, 

Which  filled  the  black  arch  of  the  night 

With  sheeted  flashings  of  spectral  light. 

And  every  maniac  ocean-gust 

Scattered  the  feathery  foam,  like  dust, 

Into  the  air — again  and  again 

Flinging  on  the  window  pane 

White  briny  flakes,  in  rage  and  spite, 

As  if  to  drown  the  altar  light. 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  39 


IV. 

STILL  leaning  on  her  lover's  breast, 
The  spirit  thus  her  crime  confessed : — 

"0  Roland!    from  too  much  loving  thee, 
From  fear  thou  wert  not  wholly  mine, 
My  lips  partook  of  misery, 
And  left  for  thee  that  bitter  wine 
Pressed  in  the  dark  from  wo's  black  vine! 

"I  drained  the  cup  that  kills  with  sleep, 
And  pillowed  my  head  on  the  breast  of  Death 
He  closed  the  lids  that  ceased  to  weep, 
And  kissed  the  lips  at  their  latest  breath  ! 
That  moment  I  had  untimely  birth 
Out  of  the  chrysalis  of  earth ! 


40  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

Then  I  saw  that  by  the  horrible  deed 

The  chain  was  sundered,  yet  I  was  not  freed; 

I  had  burst  away  from  a  windowed  cell 

Into  a  dungeon  unfathomable  — 

Into  utter  night  —  where  I  could  only  hear 

The  sighing  of  cold  phantoms  near ! 

I  shrank  with  dread;    but  soon  I  knew 

They  also  shrank  with  dread  from  me; 

And  presently  I  began  to  see 

Thin  shapes  of  such  a  ghastly  hue 

That  sudden  agues  thrilled  me  through ! 

"Some  bore  in  their  hands,  as  sign  of  guilt, 
Keen  poinards  crimson  to  the  hilt, 
Which,  ever  and  anon,  in  wild  despair 
They  struck  into  their  breasts  of  air : 
Some  pressed  to  their  pale  lips  empty  vials 
Till  frenzied  with  their  fruitless  trials  : 
Some  with  their  faces  to  the  sky, 
Walked  ever  searching  for  a  beam : 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  41 

Some  leaped  from  shadowy  turrets  high, 
And  fell,  as  in  a  nightmare  dream, 
Halfway,  and  stopped,  as  some  mad  rill, 
That  leaps  from  the  top  of  an  alpine  hill, 
Ere  it  reaches  the  rocks  it  hoped  to  win, 
Is  borne  away  in  a  vapour  thin : 
Some  plunged  them  into  counterfeit  pools  — 
Into  water  that  neither  drowns  nor  cools 
The  horrible  fever  that  burns  the  brain, 
Then  climbed  despairing  to  plunge  again: 
And  there  were  lovers  together  clasped, 
O'er  fumeless  brazures,  who  sighed  and  gasped, 
Staring  wonder  in  each  other's  eye, 
And  tantalized  that  they  did  not  die. 

"Then  as  I  passed,  with  marvelling  stare 
They  gazed,  forgetting  their  own  despair. 
Oh,  horrible !    their  eyes  did  gloat 
Upon  me,  till  at  my  ashen  throat 


42  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

I  felt  the  fiery  viper  thirst 

Which  ever  in  that  dry  air  is  nurst. 

And  ere  I  was  aware 

I  had  raised  the  cup  it  was  mine  to  bear : 

My  pale  lips  cleaved  to  the  goblet  dim, 

And  found  but  dust  on  the  heated  rim; 

And  then  I  knew — oh,  misery!  — 

It  was  the  same  I  had  pledged  to  thee  — 

To  absent  thee,  and  to  present  Death, 

Pledged  and  drained  at  one  long-drawn  breath — 

Drained  to  the  dregs !     Then  a  hot  wind  sighed 

Close  in  my  ear  —  "THOU  SUICIDE!" 

And  those  two  words  flew 

Into  my  heart,  and  pierced  it  through; 

And  my  eyes  grew  blind  with  pain 

As  a  serpent  which,  with  rage  insane, 

Strikes  himself  with  venomed  fangs, 

And  writhes  in  the  dust  with  self-dealt  pangs. — 

Then  in  my  agony's  wild  excess 

I  partly  swooned,  and  the  pain  grew  less ; 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  43 

While  a  form,  not  all  devoid  of  kindness. 
Seemed  leaning  o'er  me  in  my  blindness ; 
And  whispered  in  my  aching  ear 
Words  which  then  were  sweet  to  hear. 

"'Hast  thou  no  friend?'    the  spirit  said, 
'Who  would  rejoice  wert  thou  not  dead? 
Who  in  his  heart  would  call  thee  back 
Into  the  world's  green,  visible  track? 
If  such  an  one  there  be, 
Whose  soul  yearns  constantly  for  thee, 
Hearken,  and  when  his  voice  is  heard 
Breathing  one  recalling  word, 
Arise  and  hasten,  the  veil  is  then 
Lifted,  and  thou  mayst  return  again! 
And  it  shall  be  thy  fate,  perchance, 
To  see  the  long  dull  years  advance, 
And  still  a  bloodless  ghost  to  be 
For  many  a  weary  century, 


44  THE    HOUSE    BY   THE    SEA. 

When  all  whom  thou  hast  loved  are  fled 

Into  the  regions  overhead. 

Then  drearier  far  that  world  will  be, 

With  its  homes  and  haunts  reminding  thee 

Of  the  loved  and  lost,  than  even  this, 

Where  the  vampire  Pain  enthroned  is. 

But  be  thou  ever  wary  and  wise, 

Gazing  with  unsleeping  eyes, 

And  thou,  perchance,  shalt  find  ere  long 

Some  spirit,  racked  with  sin  or  wrong, 

A-weary  of  Life's  daily  goad 

And  sinking  under  her  dusty  load, 

Who,  with  rash  and  desperate  hand, 

Is  about  to  sever  the  mortal  band 

Which  binds  her  down,  as  once  didst  thou, 

To  be  the  shadow  which  thou  art  now. 

At  such  an  hour  be  thou  then  near, 

And  when  the  spirit  shall  disappear, 

And  the  deserted  form 

Lies  beside  thee,  silent,  warm, 


THE    HOUSE    BY   THE    SEA.  45 

Like  a  suit  of  mail  in  hot  disdain 

Discarded  on  a  battle  plain; 

Don  thou  that  heated  armour  then, 

And  strive  with  the  striving  world  again! 

And  through  long  struggling  it  may  be, 

Thou  mayst  regain  thy  liberty!' 

"Thus  spake  the  spirit.     Then  it  seemed 
A  sudden  light  within  me  beamed; 
And  I  arose  and  earthward  sped 
With  a  cautious,  noiseless  tread, 
Hearkening  ever  for  that  voice 
To  make  my  phantom  heart  rejoice. 

"Through  fields  of  twilight  first  I  passed, 
Then  through  a  sunset  —  till  at  last 
I  heard  the  roar 

Of  ocean  jargoning  with  the  shore, — 
The  sea-like  voice  of  Humanity, 
And  the  tongue-like*  shouting  of  the  sea! 


46 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 


Then  as  the  night's  wide  track 
Under  nay  feet  rolled  dim  and  black, 
I  heard  the  voice  which  summoned  me, 
'Ida!'  it  cried,  and  I  came  to  thee!" 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  47 


V. 


WHO  that  lias  heard  the  billows  roar 
On  the  rocky  bastions  of  the  shore, 
Could  restrain  the  sense  of  sublimity 
Which  drew  him  to  overlook  the  sea — 
One  sea  with  the  terror  of  many  seas! 
And  held  him  with  the  mysterious  law 
Of  wonder  and  soul-pervading  awe, 
And  sympathy,  the  child  of  these? 

Out  to  the  foamy  balcony, 
Where  the  phosphor  light 
And  the  black  of  the  night 
Struggled  in  gloomy  rivalry, 
Strode  Roland  —  his  cloak  and  hair 
Twitched  "by  the  briny  hands  of  air, 


48  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

And  all  his  dusk  garb  instantly 

Made  white  with  the  insult  of  the  sea! 

Burning  through  the  eastern  dark, 

At  the  bow  of  a  perilous  bark, 

Rising  with  alternate  leap 

Out  of  the  valleys  of  the  deep, 

He  beheld  a  crimson  light 

Driving  shoreward  through  the  night, — 

Watched  it  as  the  lurid  flame 

Straight  to  its  destruction  came! 

On  it  drove  before  the  gale, 

With  empty  mast  or  shivered  sail; 

And  Roland  shuddered  in  his  fear 

As  he  saw  it  neither  tack  nor  veer, 

And  trembled  to  think  of  a  crowded  deck 

Dashed  at  his  feet  a  shapeless  wreck ! 

A  shock!     A  shriek!     The  light  was  drowned! 
And  thej. billows  leaped  with  a  higher  bound! 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  49 

And  the  skyward  spray  the  instant  after 

Was  stunned  with  the  ocean's  scornful  laughter! 

Then,  bewildered  with  pain  and  fright, 
Roland  descended  the  stormy  height, 
Finding  his  way  by  the  phosphor  light, 
To  seek  amid  the  wild  uproar 
The  drowning  bodies  thrown  on  shore. 
Suddenly  at  his  feet  a  form 
Lay  like  an  offering  from  the  storm! 
White  as  a  stranded  wreath  of  foam, 
White  as  a  ghost  from  its  charnel  home, 
It  lay  where  the  gust  with  blinding  flight 
Strove  to  hide  the  thing  from  sight, 
Like  a  maniac  murderer,  to  and  fro 
Raving  and  flinging  the  scattering  snow 
Over  the  victim  that  mocks  his  despair 
With  its  unveiled  face  and  tell-tale  stare! 
A  moment  the  brave  man's  heart  recoiled, 

Then  ho  lifted  the  body  and  upward  toiled. 
4 


50  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 


VI. 

IT  was  a  sight  both  wild  and  dread 
To  see  the  living  for  the  dead — 
One  stubborn  and  unaided  form  — 
Battling  with  an  ocean  storm, — 
Toiling  up  the  jagged  path, 
Chased  by  the  billows  in  their  wrath, 
Bearing  the  dripping  shape  away 
Which  the  sea  had  deemed  its  prey. 

Thus  laden,  Roland  among  the  rocks 
Strove  upward  mid  the  desperate  shocks 
Of  gust  and  foam  —  climbing  a  track 
As  crooked  as  that  on  the  tempest's  wrack, 
Where  the  armed  Thunder  in  his  ire 
Descends  in  a  zigzag  path  of  fire! 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE    SEA.  51 

The  long  black  hair 

Of  the  drowned  form  he  strove  to  bear, 

Flashed  abroad  on  the  wet  sea  air, 

Wild  as  the  tresses  of  Despair: 

And  he   thought,  as  he  gazed  on  the  drooping  head 

Where  the  writhing  locks  were  so  wildly  spread, 

Of  the  twisted  horrors  Medusa  wore  — 

And  a  shudder  pierced  him  to  the  core. 

But  now  he  heard,  or  deemed  he  heard, 

The  sound  of  that  most  piteous  word, 

That  only  word  the  full  heart  knows 

To  syllable  its  joys  and  woes, — 

A  sigh!     Like  a  night-bird  sweeping  near, 

Its  soft  wing  fluttered  past  his  ear, 

And  he  felt  the  heave  of  the  rounded  breast 

Which  close  against  his  own  was  prest: 

Then  through  his  frame  he  took  new  strength, 

And  with  upward  toiling  gained  at  length 


52  THE     HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA. 

The  gusty  height!     A  moment  there, 
While  the  lightning  lent  its  sheeted  glare, 
That  group  stood  in  the  misty  air 
Like  statues  on  a  terrace  high, 
Relieved  on  a  dusky  wall  of  sky. 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  53 


VII. 

INTO  the  care  of  a  gray-haired  crone, 

The  sybil  who  tended  his  dull  hearth-stone, 

He  yielded  the  body.     A  couch  was  spread, 

And  the  lady  was  laid  as  she  were  not  dead ; 

And  the  dame  from  off  the  swooning  face 

Smoothed  the  wet  locks  into  their  place; 

And  Roland,  when  the  salt  sea-spray 

Which  blurred  his  vision  was  cleared  away, 

Holding  a  white  torch,  bent  to  trace 

The  features  of  that  sleeping  face. 

His  heart  stood  still! 

His  blood  ran  chill ! 

His  wide  eyes  could  not  »gaze  their  fill ! 

And  as  his  marvelling  face  was  drawn 

Nearer  and  nearer  to  stare  thereon  — 


54  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Slowly — slowly  as  a  veil 
Lifted  from  a  phantom's  visage  pale; 
The  lady's  delicate  lids  were  raised. 
And  in  Roland's  face  the  soft  orbs  gazed 
With  all  that  touching  tenderness 
Which  only  loving  eyes  express. 

He  had  clasped  the  ghost  of  his  beloved, 

And  not  a  tremor  in  his  soul  was  moved, — 

From  lips  of  air  had  taken  the  kiss 

With  not  a  fear  to  mar  the  bliss, — 

And  heard  what  the  threatening  demon  said, 

With  a  pang  of  pain  but  not  of  dread! 

But  now  an  icy  horror  stole 

Through  the  deepest  depths  of  his  inmost  soul; 

For  here  indeed  was  the  risen  dead 

For  whom  the  funeral  tcjars  were  shed! 

A  spectre  of  dust! — a  ghost  of  clay!- 

That  lived  when  the  spirit  had  passed  away. 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  55 

He  trembled,  but  could  not  move  or  speak: 

He  had  gazed  in  those  eyes  till  his  will  was  weak. 

Then  the  lady  sighed,  and  her  bosom  heaved, 
And  she  faintly  smiled  as  her  heart  was  grieved; 
While  the  thought  of  pain  which  shadowed  her  brow 
Said,    " Roland,    ah!    Roland,    thou   lovest   me    not 

now  !" 

Then  a  great  tear  stole  from  under  her  lid, 
And  rebukingly  over  her  white  cheek  slid: 
Then  Roland  cried  as  he  clasped  her  hand, 
"'Tis  a  dream  that  I  cannot  understand! 
Forgive  me,  dear  Ida,  if  even  I  seem 
To  wrong  thy  sweet  shade  in  the  dark  of  a  dream !" 

"Oh,  joy!  Thou  hast  called  me  'dear  Ida/"  she  cried, 
And  she  lovingly  drew  him  more  close  to  her  side. 
That  voice — 'twas  the  same  he  had  heard  in  gone 

days, 
While  she  poured  in  his  eyes  as  of  old  her  soft  gaze. 


56  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Then   she   sighed — "Ah!  dear   Roland,  a   vision   it 

seems  ? — 

To  me  'tis  the  sweetest  of  all  waking  dreams! 
And  let  me  recount  in  this  hour  of  bliss 
How  I  fled  out  of  the  past  into  this, 
Escaping  from  Death's  black  precipice." 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  57 


VIII. 

"FAR  back  in  that  dark  desperate  hour, 
When  the  swart  mandragore  had  power, — 
While  the  suicidal  draught,  like  flame, 
Through  all  the  galleries  of  my  frame 
Spread  its  malignant  fire  —  even  then 
I  repented  and  prayed  for  life  again  — 
Not  from  the  torture;  but  that  I  knew, 
When  it  seemed  too  late,  that  thou  wert  true. 

"And  then  I  swooned,  and  heard  the  tread 
Of  muffled  feet  —  while  sad  hearts  said, 
In  sighs  and  whispers  — '  She  is  dead !  is  dead ! 
And  then  I  knew, —  oh,  wo  was  me !  — 
That  word  was  a  shaft  of  pain  to  thee, 


58  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

A  shaft  which  I  had  winged  with  flame 
And  sped  —  and  yet  could  not  reclaim! 
I  saw  thy  high  soul  with  the  blow 
Struck  to  the  dreary  plains  of  wo, 
Yet  struggling  in  its  fall,  as  when 
An  eagle,  sailing  with  sunward  ken, 
Receives  from  the  heartless  archer's  bow 
The  envious  arrow  winged  from  below. 

"Then  I  felt  thy  hasty  farewell  kiss, — 
A  touch  of  mingled  torture  and  bliss; 
And  my  soul  within  me  writhed  with  pain 
That  I  could  not  return  that  kiss  again. 
And  then  you  fled !     I  heard  the  door 
Swing  loud  behind — and  heard  no  more. 
My  very  soul  then  swooned  —  and  all 
Was  blacker  than  midnight's  starless  pall. 
And  more  I  know  not — till  a  long  cool  breath 
Came  into  my  breast  and  chased  out  Death — 
Or  that  dark  sleep  which  did  counterfeit 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  59 

Black  Death  so  well,  that  I  scarcely  yet 

Can  realize  the  miracle 

Which  finds  me  freed  from  his  dreamless  spell. 

"Then  I  awoke  and  saw  the  room 
Tricked  out  with  all  the  pompous  gloom 
Of  funeral  weeds — the  air  was  sick 
With  incense  fumes  suspended  thick 
And  blue,  as  at  morn  o'er  a  stagnant  lake 
Swings  the  venomous  mist  ere  the  winds  awake. 
There  I  saw  two  tapers  with  fiendish  glare 
Burning  in  the  ghastly  air; 
And  my  breast  with  horrible  pain  was  weighed, 
As  if  by  the  weight  of  a  black  dream  made. 
I  found  it  was  a  cross  of  gold 
Which  lay  on  my  bosom  so  heavy  and  cold  — 
A  cross  entwined  with  lily-bells, 
And  framed  in  a  wreath  of  immortelles. 
A  garland  of  flame  —  a  cross  of  fire  — 
And  I  outstretched  on  a  martyr's  pyre 


60  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

Had  been  less  terrible!  —  So  at  last, 
By  struggling  I  grew  strong,  and  cast 
These  emblems  of  death  from  off  my  breast, 
And,  breathing,  felt  no  more  opprest. 

"Then  you  should  have  heard  the  shriek 
Of  Death's  stout  wardress! — Pale  and  weak, 
She  reeled  and  tottered  beyond  the  door, 
And  fell  in  a  fit  on  the  marble  floor. 
She  awoke  a  maniac — her  hair  turned  gray — 
And  a  maniac  she  goes  to  this  very  day. 

"Then  the  household  and  the  priest  came  in — 
The  priest  in  his  robe  as  black  as  sin !  — 
All  shuddered  and  shrank;   till  I  rose  and  smiled, 
When  they  rushed  to  my  side  with  wonder  wild, 
And  cried,  in  their  mingled  joy  and  dread  — 
( She  lives  !     Our  Ida  is  not  dead  ! ' 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE    SEA.  61 


IX. 


"DAYS  past,  and  daily  I  asked  for  thee, 
Till  at  last  they  pointed  over  the  sea, 
And  said,  in  the  madness  of  thy  despair 
Thy  bark  had  followed  the  red  sun  there. 
For  hours  they  had  watched  the  westward  sail 
Growing  in  the  distance  pale, 
And  sinking  till  beyond  the  line 
Of  the  naming,  sunset-gilded  brine 
It  set,  like  a  star, — and  never  more 
Came  tidings  of  that  bark  to  shore. 

"Then  with  a  grief  too  great  for  speech, 
I  wandered  daily  to  the  beach 


62  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

With  one  companion  gray  and  old, 
A  reverend  friar — who  hourly  told 
His  'Aves'  as  we  walked  the  sand — 
And  the  pious  tears,  on  his  sunbrown  hand 
His  old  eyes  dropped,  outcounted  the  beads 
As  he  thought  of  my  sorrow !     My  poor  heart 

bleeds 

That  these  tearful  eyes  shall  no  more  win 
A  sight  of  that  saintly  Capuchin ! 

"At  last  we  found 
A  little  shallop  westward  bound; 
The  daintiest  thing  that  ever  yet 
Was  on  the  treacherous  ocean  set. 
Under  the  prow  we  read  her  name 
Written  in  ciphers  of  golden  flame, — 
'THE  FIRE  BEARER/    Each  letter  did  make, 
The  semblance  of  a  twisted  snake, — 
One  with  the  other  all  intervolved, 
Like  a  riddle  that  is  slowly  solved. 


THE    HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  63 

"What  ails  the  dame?     What  thus  can  make 
Her  eyes  so  wide  and  her  limbs  to  quake?" 
The  crone  replied,  with  a  look  of  awe, 
"Forgive  me,  lady,  I  thought  I  saw — 
My  sight  is  dim, — 
'Twas  a  foolish  whim, — 
But  I  thought  I  saw  a  fiery  snake, 
A  little  streak  of  flame  just  there 
Writhing  through  your  tangled  hair!" 
The  lady  smiled,  and  gathered  in 
Her  tresses  betwixt  her  breast  and  chin; 
And  thus  pursued  the  delirious  theme, 
While  Roland  listened  like  one  in  a  dream. 

"So  near  the  shallop  tacked  and  sailed, 
That  in  a  desperate  moment  I  hailed 
The  skipper,  who  leaned  against  the  helm, 
Looking  the  lord  of  the  watery  realm. 
Round  went  the  rudder, — the  sail  went  round; 
And  the  light  bark  neared  like  a  leaping  hound ; 


64  THE     HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA. 

Then,  seeing  what  I  had  done,  I  sunk 

And  swooned  on  the  breast  of  the  dear  old  monk ! 

"Then,  half-awaking,  I  felt  the  motion 
Beneath  me  of  a  summer  ocean, 
And  dimly  heard  a  voice  of  glee 
Singing  some  ballad  about  the  sea!  — 
;Twas  the  skipper's  voice,  as  the  helm  he  prest, 
Heading  the  shallop  out  to  the  west! 

"The  Capuchin  was  at  my  side, 
Or  else  for  very  fear  I  had  died. 
There  we  sat  on  deck,  in  the  breezy  shade 
By  the  one  tall  lateen  canvas  made, — 
Still  flashing  on  in  our  track  of  foam 
When  the  venturous  sea-gull  turned  for  home. 

"Thus  dreamily  sitting,  for  many  a  day 
Under  the  bow  we  heard  the  spray, 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  65 

And  watched  our  backward  path  of  white, 
And  gazed  on  its  liquid  fire  by  night. 

"Under  us  eastward  the  sea  went  by, 
Over  us  westward  went  the  sky — 
The  sun  and  the  moon  and  those  silver  barks, 
Those  soul-freighted  celestial  arks, 
The  starry  fleets  of  the  shoreless  night, 
Were  the  only  things  that  surpassed  our  flight ! 
As  a  swallow  chases  the  summer,  we  sped, 
Chasing  the  days  that  before  us  fled." 


66  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 


X. 


"THEN  came  the  calm  —  we  called  it  so  — 
But  the  skipper  knew,  as  now  we  know, 
That  it  was  only  the  hungry  Storm, 
Crouching  back  with  his  awful  form, 
The  better  that  he  might  spring  and  light 
Down  on  the  unsuspecting  night ! 

"The  sail  was  furled, — the  hatch  made  fast,  - 
And  the  friar  and  I  sat  close  to  the  mast. 
Then  came  the  dark  and  the  roaring  gale, 
And  we  sailed  as  an  autumn  leaf  might  sail, 
Blown  by  a  loud-tornado  gust— 
And  the  spray  was  like  a  blinding  dust. 

"Then  to  the  shivering  mast  we  clung 
Still  closer— while  the  friar's  tongue 


THE     HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA.  67 

Over  his  paternosters  ran 

As  only  a  pious  friar's  can; 

And  my  trembling  lips,  again  and  again, 

Strove  vainly  to  respond  'amen.' 

"The  hard  old  skipper  laughed  outright 
To  behold  us  clinging  to  the  mast  in  fright. 
Then  suddenly  he  cried  —  'land!  ho!' 
And  we  saw  in  the  west  the  crimson  glow 
Of  a  lighthouse  —  or  what  we  deemed  was  so! 

"Fiercer  and  fiercer  the  loud  gale  came, 
Driving  us  onward  towards  the  flame. 
The  skipper  strove  to  change  our  course, 
Pressing  the  helm  with  giant  force: — 
Battling  a  moment  'twixt  rudder  and  gale, 
The  light  ark  shuddered  like  a  veering  sail  — 
Then  a  crash!  —  and  a  curse!  —  o'er  the  stern  of 

the  bark 
The  helm  and  the  helmsman  plunged  into  the  dark  ! 


58  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

And  the  shallop  leaped  forth  to  the  black  unknown, 

With  the  joy  of  a  steed  when  his  rider  is  thrown! 

Spurning  the  waves  and  the  wind's  control. 

On,  on  it  sped  to  its  direful  goal ! 

I  hid  my  face  in  the  old  man's  breast: 

And  then  —  and  then — you  know  the  rest! 

"Oh,  Roland,  a  fearful  dream  was  mine  — 
Those  swooning  moments  among  the  brine ! 
I  saw  thee  stand  in  a  midnight  tower, 
And  a  beautiful  fiend  had  thee  in  her  power. 
I  saw  her  pale  lips  pressed  to  thine; 
I  saw  ye  kneel  at  an  altar-shrine; 
And  then  I  heard  your  mingled  prayer, 
That,  like  a  raven  croaking  in  air, 
Hung  black  and  ominous,  but  did  not  soar ! 
And  then  you  named  her  by  my  name, 
And  that  hot  word  clung  to  my  heart  like  flame 
Slun£  from  a  torch !     And  I  heard  no  more ! 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  GO 

"Oh,  Roland,  wherefore  tremble  so? 
Or  wherefore  stoops  your  brow  so  low? 
Oh,  dreary  hour !  oh,  wo  is  me ! 
If  this  terrible  dream  should  prove  to  be 
The  shadow  of  mad  reality ! 
Look  up,  and  assure  me  it  is  not  so  — 
Or  let  me  die  with  the  sudden  blow 
Of  the  horrible  truth !     At  thy  command 
Death  shall  strike  with  most  welcome  hand. 

"  Oh,  wo  is  me !     Oh,  wo  is  me ! 
Would  I  were  lying  under  the  sea ! 
Or  would  that  dear  old  friend  were  here 
Who  sleeps  so  low  on  his  briny  bier, 
To  mount  with  thee  to  that  sinful  place 
To  meet  the  demon  face  to  face; 
With  exorcism  and  with  prayer 
To  scourge  her  into  the  utmost  air! 


70  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 


XL 

WAS  it  the  sound  of  a  human  cry, 

Or  wail  of  a  night-bird  driven  by? 

The  lady  started  and  halfway  rose, 

With  that  look  the  walking  sleeper  shows, — 

With  large  eyes  staring  vacantly, 

That  seem  to  listen  and  not  to  see. 

Then,  with  a  tongue  of  pitiful  glee, 

She  cried,   "0  Roland,  if  that  should  be 

The  voice  of  my  friend  so  old  and  gray, 

Struggling  among  the  rocks  and  spray! 

"There,  did  you  not  hear?   that  wild  cry  through  the 

roar! 
Hark  again !   It  is  his !     Wave  the  torch  at  the  door, 


THE     HOUSE     BY   THE     SEA.  71 

And  beacon  him  in!     Oh,  I  faint  as  I  think, 

Perchance  how  he  clings  to  some  terrible  brink !" 

Even  while  she  spoke,  as  if  at  her  will, 

The  door  swung  wide,  and  over  the  sill 

The  gust  and  the  roar  and  the  spray  swept  in, 

Like  a  crew  of  wild  pirates,  with  insolent  din; 

And  suddenly  a  group  of  three 

Toiled  breathlessly  after,  all  dripping  the  sea. 

There  came  the  monk  in  his  robe  of  brown, 
Over  his  breast  his  white  beard  blown 
And  sparkling  like  a  gust  of  foam; 
As  if  old  Neptune  should  leave  his  home, 
To  traverse  the  dry  land  up  and  down 
Disguised  in  a  friar's  hood  and  gown. 

And  bearing  a  lantern,   so  covered  with  spray 
That  the  light  could  scarcely  emit  a  ray, 
Came  the  fisherman,  whose  sturdy  arm 
Had  rescued  the  pious  man  from  harm. 


72  THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA. 

There,  too,  was  the  maiden,  the  fisherman's  child, 

With  her  glowing  cheeks  and  eyelids  mild. 

For  many  a  mile  about  the  coast, 

That  father  and  child  were  the  country's  boast. 

And  many  a  sailor  on  a  far-off  deck 

Remembered  Agatha  and  the  wreck. 

Fame  fondly  pictured  their  struggling  forms 

Battling  against  the  blackest  storms. 

Through  day  or  dark  they  might  be  found 

Braving  the  tempest  in  their  round; 

And  thus  to-night  they  had  met  the  storm, 

And  rescued  from  death  this  saintly  form. 

That  moment  there 

Was  a  living  picture  bold  and  rare, 

With  its  massive  lights  and  shadows  thrown 

From  the  torch  in  the  hands  of  the  withered  crone, 

Exalted  above  her  own  wild  hair 

Which  streamed  like  the  shreds  of  a  banner  in  ail, 


THE     HOUSE     BY   THE     SEA.  73 

Tattered,  confused,  as  if  torn  in  the  strife 

Of  the  seventy  years'  war  waged  by  Death  against  Life. 

The  lady  arose  with  joy  and  ran 

And  fell  on  the  breast  of  the  ancient  man; 

And  wept  such  tears  as  a  child  might  shed 

On  the  breast  of  a  parent  just  saved  from  the  dead. 

Then  from  her  heart  of  gratitude 

She  thanked  the  fisherman,  where  he  stood 

Gazing  on  her  with  marvelling  face, 

As  if  in  some  enchanted  place 

He  stood,  with  uncontrolled  sight, 

Chained  to  a  vision  of  delight. 

And  then  she  seized  the  daughter's  hand: 
A  moment  her  large  eyes  softly  scanned 
The  modest  maid,  with  look  as  mild 
As  a  mother  casts  on  her  beauteous  child, 
Conscious  that  its  face  confers 
A  ray  of  splendour  back  to  hers. 


74  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE    SEA. 

Then  drawing  her  near  with  a  smile  of  bliss, 

Pronounced  her  thanks  in  a  tender  kiss. 

Suddenly  pale  grew  the  maiden's  lips, 

And  her  soul  was  veiled  with  a  deep  eclipse; 

And  she  sunk  at  the  old  monk's  feet  with  dread, 

Begging  his  blessing  to  rest  on  her  head. 

And  cried,   "Oh,  let  me  see  and  touch 

The  CROSS,  which  we  cannot  kiss  too  much  ! 

And  count  one  .prayer  on  the  beads  divine !" 

And    the   old   monk    murmured, —  "My   blessing  is 

thine." 

While  he  laid  his  hand  on  her  shining  hair; 
But  it  seemed  like  a  fiery  gauntlet  there! 

Then  tracing  his  girdle  and  fumbling  his  dress, 
He  cried,  with  a  visage  of  deep  distress, 
"Oh,  wo  is  me!      They  are  lost  in  the  sea — 
That  miracle  cross  and  rosary ! 
Torn  from  my  side  in  those  desperate  shocks 
When  the  billows  were  lifting  me  over  the  rocks. 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  75 

Oh,  wo  is  me!      They  were  made  from  a  tree 

In  the  garden  of  holy  Geth " 

Here  the  sea, 

Through  the  open  door,  hurled  into  the  place 
Such  a  cloud  of  spray  that  the  old  man's  face 
Was  smothered  with  brine.     The  white  torch  hissed, 
And  all  the  room  was  blind  with  the  mist. 

Then  thrice  the  maiden,  with  look  distressed, 

Signed  the  cross  on  her  brow  and  breast, 

And  thus  to  the  friar  her  fear  confessed:  — 

"I  feel  in  my  soul  what  I  cannot  say; 

But  something  so  wicked  has  blown  this  way, 

That  I  cannot  choose  but  shudder  and  shrink, 

As  if  I  were  dragged  to  a  horrible  brink. 

A  demon  is  breathing  this  very  air, 

Which  can  only  be  banished  afar  with  prayer!" 

The  monk  bent  soothingly  over  her  form, 

And  said,  "Be  calm,  my  child,  it  is  only  the  storm; 


76  THE    HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA. 

Take  cheer,  take  cheer! 

It  is  only  the  loud  wind  shrieking  near. 

The  wind  and  the  night  and  the  sea. 

Are  all  that  be 

Abroad  to  fill  the  soul  with  fear." 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  77 


XII. 

THE  lady,  who  heard  what  the  maiden  had  said, 
As  dizzy  with  pain,  clasped  her  hands  to  her  head; 
While  her  white  bosom  heaved  as  with  heart-broken 

sighs, 

And  she  turned  upon  Roland  her  pitiful  eyes  ; 
And  he  read  in  her  visage  of  pallid  dismay, 
Far  more  than  her  language  of  sorrow  could  say. 

"Oh,  the  terrible  dream!     It  is  true — it  is  true! 
And  a  beautiful  demon  there  waiteth  for  you! 
For  you!  Roland,  you!    and  I  to  be  left 
In  a  poisonous  world  of  all  comfort  bereft!" 


78  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

"  Though  I  die/ it   shall  vanish !"   the  desperate  man 

cried, 

"No  demon  shall  hold  me  away  from  thy  side!" 
The    torch    halfway   dwindled — the   crone   muttered 

and  moaned — 

The  maid  hid  her  face  and  her  deep  bosom  groaned ! 
Then  seizing  the  monk,  like  one  in  despair, 
Roland  led  through  the  hall  to  the  shadowy  stair; 
And  said,  while  ascending,  "Let  thy  holy  words  be 
A  scourge  which  shall  drive  this  fiend  into  the  sea! 
Ay,  into  its  own  native  sea  of  black  pain, 
So  deep  it  shall  never  turn  earthward  again!" 

Then   the   monk's   pious   pleasure   burst  to   laughter 

aloud, 
Like   a   hot    gust    that   blows   the   red   leaves   in    a 

cloud ; 
And  he  cried — "By  the  Pope,  whose   brown  livery 

I  wear, 
It  shall  frighten  the  night  with  its  shriek  of  despair ! 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  79 

And  when    my  Pope   hears    the   good   deed  I  have 

done, 

He  will  call  me  to  kneel  at  his  great  crimson  throne; 
And  knowing  the  height  of  all  priestly  desire, 
He  will  crown  this  old  brow  with  the  sacred  attire 
Of  a  cardinal's  hat  —  flaming  scarlet  as  fire! 

"No  monarch  is  half  so  sublime  as  our  Pope! 
You  will  visit  our  Rome  and  behold  him,  I  hope; — 
You  will  find  him  enthroned  in  magnificent  state, — 
His  brow  overweighed  with  the  burthensome  weight 
Of  care  for  the  souls  of  mankind!     You  will  see 
The  great  of  all  nations  there  bending  the  knee  — 
Proud  kings  and  their  courts  in  their  splendour  replete, 
Like  an  ocean  of  flame,  surging  up  to  his  feet; — 
All  so  eagerly  crowding  to  press  on  his  shoe 
The  kiss   of  allegiance,  that  the  place   through   and 

through 

Grows  oppressively  heated  —  besides,  as  you  know, 
Our  Rome's  a  warm  climate  —  excessively  so! 


80  THE     HOUSE    JIY    THE     SEA. 

"You  will  probably  go  there  in  carnival  time, — 
And  see  what  no  pencil,  however  sublime, 
Could  picture  with  justice.     If  one  did  not  know 
That    the    thing    was    a    sanctioned    and    sanctified 

show, 
One    might    deem    he    had    passed    into    Lucifer's 

regions, 
And     think     he     saw     Hell    pouring    out    its    red 

legions ! 

Indeed,  they  do  say,  that  beneath  his  black  dome 
The  Devil  does  try  to  imitate  Rome! 
But  this  is  rank  scandal — you  see  what  I  mean  — 
In  no  place  but  Rome  can  you  find  such  a  scene. 

"And  then,  oh!  those  gorgeous  great  festival  nights, 
When  the  huge  dusky  dome  is  one  fabric  of  lights, 
Done  with  marvellous  skill,  which  naught  baffles  or 

mars, — 
A  temple  of  flame  ! —  a  mosaic  of  stars ! 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  81 

"Believe  me;  nowhere  are  such  fireworks  known, 
As  you'll   find   in   our   Rome.      Quite   distinct   and 

alone 

They  stand;    for  the  artist  who  plans  them  is  one 
In  that  line  of  business  not  easily  outdone!7' 


82  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 


xm. 

THEY  gained  the  gusty  balcony 

Where  the  light  from  the   chamber  streamed  out  to 

the  sea. 

What  ailed  the  friar  that  he  seemed  to  fail 
And  grasped  for  support  on  the  shadowy  rail? 
Why  did  he  shiver  and  seem  so  faint? 
Was  it  that,  like  a  beautiful  saint, 
He  beheld  the  spirit-lady  kneeling 
With  mild  eyes  full  of  tears  and  feeling, 
Clasping  on  her  bosom  fair 
The  crucifix,  which  piously  there 
Rose  and  fell  on  the  tide  of  prayer? 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  83 

"I  am  very  old  and  nigh  to  death, 
And  climbing  that  stairway  has  taken  my  breath!" 
He  murmured  at  last: — "Ah,  me!    ah,  me! 
I  am  very  weak  from  the  abuse  of  the  sea! 
And  the  chilly  wet  is  piercing  me  through 
As  if  I  had  slept  in  a  poisonous  dew, 
And  awoke  with  all  the  horrible  pains 
Which  death  can  inflict  with  chills  and  blains! 

"It  will  pass  anon: — meantime  do  thou 
Secure  the  precious  moment  now — 
Go  seize  on  that  polluted  cross, 
And  into  the  sea,  with  a  curse  and  a  toss, 
Fling  it  afar,  as  you  would  fling 
Some  black,  dead  offensive  thing, 
Hurled  away  with  fierce  disdain, 
Never  to  be  reclaimed  again ! 
And  then — and  then — oh  !   this  terrible  chill, 
Piercing  me  like  an  electric  thrill 


84  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

In  a  cavern  of  ice! — The  punishing  ire 

Of — Olir  abbot,  though  wielding  great  lashes  of  fire, 

Were  easier  to  bear  than  this  shiver  intense, 

Like  icicles  piercing  the  innermost  sense ! 

Then   take   thou  this   girdle,   which   grasp   like   a 

scourge, 
And  wield  through  the  room !  —  It  hath  power  to 

purge 

The  air  from  such  envious  spirits  as  this, 
Who  would  rob  even  hell  of  its  last  ray  of  bliss !" 

Then  Roland,  with  averted  head, 

Strode  in  and  did  as  the  friar  said; 

He  seized  the  cross  —  through  the  open  door 

It  spun  to  the  dark  and  the  wild  uproar! 

The  spirit  arose  with  a  shriek  of  wo, 
Crying,  "  This  is  the  storm  !     It  must  be  so  ! 
The  same  I  foretold  thee  an  hour  ago! 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  85 

Though  thou  comest,  0  Roland !  as  one  in  swift  ire, 
And  armed  with  those  red  hissing  scourges  of  fire : 
Oh !   know,  Roland,  know  that  the  fiends  of  the  pit, 
The  Arachnes  of  wo,  are  all  weaving  their  wit 
In  webs  to  ensnare  thee !     Already  thy  will 
Is  tangled,  confused  in  the  threads  of  their  skill : 
Ere  thou  strike  I  depart — yet  again  and  again 
My  hand  shall  be  laid  on  thy  forehead  of  pain. 
And  when  thou  hast  passed  through  this  fiery  test, 
When  reason  and  calm  have  re-entered  thy  breast, 
Again  will  I  sit  by  thy  side,  and  renew 
The   chain   which   the   demons   have   sundered   in 
two." 

Ere  the  red  scourge  was  lifted,  the  spirit  had  flown 
With  a  sigh  in  the  air,  and  then  followed  a  groan, 
And  Roland  dropt  down  with  the  weight  of  a  stone. 
And  the  monk,  leaning  o'er  him,  breathed  into  his  ear 
Thoughts  without  words,  which  his  spirit  in  fear 


86  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

Beheld  as  black  tangible  visions  at  strife, 
Struggling  which  should  be  foremost  to  poison  his  life. 


Down  in  the  shadowy  hall  below, 

The  maid  and  the  fisher  were  turning  to  go, 

When  the  lady  with  a  mild  command, 

With  language  sweet  and  countenance  bland, 

Recalled  the  maiden,  and  seizing  her  hand, 

Pressed  it  to  her  bosom  white 

And  cold  as  a  marble  tomb  at  night; 

And  murmured  in  accents  sweet  and  mild — 

"We  must  be  friends — dear  friends — my  child! 

And  in  token  of  this,  this  little  ring, 

Quite  a  simple  yet  sacred  thing, 

I  place  on  your  finger.     It  is,  you  see, 

The  emblem  of  wisdom  and  eternity; 

And  a  symbol  of  what  our  love  must  be — 

Wise,  watchful,  unending — that  hereafter  we, 


THE    HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  87 

Even  in  a  future  clime, 

May  look  backward  to  the  realms  of  time, 

And  say  it  was  upon  tliat  night 

When  the  heavens  were  black   and  the  seas   were 

white, 

We  plighted  the  faith  that  shall  never  grow  cold, 
And  linked  our  two  souls  with  this  serpent  of  gold !" 


|jsri 


WANDERING  over  the  summer  plain, 
Like  one  gone,  for  love,  insane, 
And  gathering  through  field  and  lane, 
Those  wild  blooms  whose  breath  is  bane, 
Passed  Agatha,  her  golden  hair 
More  golden  in  the  noonday  air, 
Fluttering  free  from  the  wonted  braid 
Which  her  hand  no  longer  made; 
But  twined  with  such  wild  vines  and  weeds 
As  the  rank  marsh  and  woodland  breeds : 
And  like  pale  Autumn,  when  she  grieves, 

Her  brow  was  bound  with  crimson  leaves 

91 


92  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Plucked  from  the  woodbine,  and  her  breast 
In  a  scarf  of  withered  vines  was  drest; 
Her  cheeks  were  white,  her  eyes  were  bright, 
And  full  of  supernatural  light. 

Oh,  Heaven !   it  is  a  sight  to  make 
The  heart  of  the  stoutest  stoic  ache. 
To  see  a  maid  so  young  and  fair 
Decked  in  the  garments  of  despair ! 
Like  a  statued  sorrow,  overrun 
With  garlands  yellowing  in  the  sun. 

And  thus  as  she  gathered  the  leaves  and  flowers, 

Fit  only  to  deck  the  forbidden  bowers 

Wherein  some  pale  enchantress  fiend 

In  noxious  odours  is  veiled  and  screened, 

She  murmured  her  fancies  as  they  came 

Out  of  her  brain  like  wings  of  flame : — 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  93 

"  They  are  gone,  all  the  blooms  by  the  wild  April  strown 

In  the  pathway  of  May; 

For  the  passionate  breath  of  the  Summer  has  blown 
Their  leaves  to  decay. 

"And  the  flowers  of  childhood  must  wither  and  fall, 

And  pine  unto  death, 

When  the  summer  of  passion  breathes  over  them  all 
Its  feverish  breath. 

"Where  the  violets  out  from  the  green  hedges  stole, 

Unnoticed  to  shine, 
The  poppy  is  waving  its  fiery  bowl, 
A  bowl  of  red  wine. 

"These  goblets  of  crimson,  these  beakers  of  sleep, 

Each  a  chalice  of  flame, 

I  will  pluck  for  my  lady,  her  soul  they  shall  steep 
In  desires  without  name. 


94  THE    HOUSE    BY   THE    SEA. 

"And  the  berries  that  burn  on  the  poisonous  vine, 

Like  embers  blown  red, 
I  will  gather  and  string,  and  gayly  entwine 
Round  her  beautiful  head. 

"From  this  wild  ivy-climber,  that  strangles  the  tree 

And  robs  it  of  green, 

I  will  weave  for  my  lady  a  garland,  and  she 
Shall  be  crowned  like  a  queen. 

"Once   I  knew   where   to   find   the   most  beautiful 

blooms 

When  the  year  was  at  noon, 

Those  delicate  spirits  called  out  of  their  tombs 

By  the  trumpet  of  June:  — 

"Now  the  daisies  and  buttercups  fade  at  my  touch - 

And  even  the  sweet-brier, 

That    wild    parent    of   roses    my    heart    loved    so 
much, 


THE    HOUSE    BY   THE    SEA.  95 

Now  wilts  in  my  hand  as  if  held  in  the  clutch 
Of  fingers  of  fire. 

"Oh;  this  beautiful  ring!   and  this  gem  in  its  head 

So  scarlet  and  bright! 
I  feel  a  soft  warmth  through  my  quick  pulses  shed 

With  a  sense  of  delight! 
Like  a  spark  caught  from  Mars,  as  lovely  and  red 

It  burns  in  the  night! 

"Since  I  knew  the  fair  donor,  a  wonderful  change 

Has  mantled  the  earth; 
The  summer  goes  by,  and  no  longer  I  range 
Through  its  bowers  of  mirth. 

"The  birds  have  grown  hateful  that  sing  in  the  light; 

No  longer  I  hark 

To  any  save  those  which  talk  madness  all  night 
To  the  fiery-eyed  dark! 


96  THE    HOUSE    BY   THE    SEA. 

"Thou  gem;  let  me  press  thee  again  and  again 

"With  a  passionate  kiss! 

Oh!  a  pleasure  inflames  me  that  almost  is  pain, 
The  pain  of  pure  bliss!" 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  07 


II. 


LIKE  a  shell  among  the  rocks, 

A  tempest-stranded  nautilus, 

"Wrecked  but  not  ruined  by  the  shocks' 

Lifted  and  lodged  from  danger  —  thus 

The  dainty  bark  was  found, 

Sitting  upright,  safe  and  sound, 

Like  a  vessel  on  the  stocks, 

Waiting  but  to  feel 

The  loosening  hammers  at  her  keel 

To  launch  upon  the  sea 

And  leap  away  to  liberty, 

Like  a  captured  swan  set  free. 

7 


98  THE    HOUSE    BY   THE    SEA. 

Already  there  were  toiling  men 
Labouring  hard' at  the  spars  and  ropes; 
And  on  the  cliff,  with  anxious  ken, 
Gazing  with  mingled  fears  and  hopes, 
Stood  Roland,  with  the  lady's  form 
Languidly  leaning  on  his  arm. 

There,  too,  with  his  beard  and  hair 
Swaying  to  the  summer  air, 
Stood  the  monk  with  mutterings  low, 
That  like  the  billows'  mystical  speech, 
Hissing,  murmuring  up  the  beach, 
Were  poured  in  such  a  Babel  flow 
None  knew  if  they  were  prayers  or  no- 
Save  the  lady,  who  ever  and  anon 
Responded  till  the  monk  was  done. 

Still  labouring  at  the  ropes  and  spars, 
To-heaving,  like  a  group  of  tars, 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  99 

Toiled  the  men;    but  the  firm-set  keel 

Clung  to  the  rock  like  magnet  to  steel. 

Whereat  the  monk,  as  if  in  'wrath, 

Hurried  down  the  zigzag  path. 

In  the  breeze  his  white  beard  shook, 

Like  the  foam  of  a  mountain  brook. 

He  laid  his  shoulder  against  the  keel, 

At  once  she  began  to  stagger  and  reel. 

11  Again !"    he  cried,  "and  all  together!" 

And  like  a  steed  that  has  broken  its  tether, 

Away  she  sped  with  a  bound  and  a  quiver, 

Making  the  cloven  water  shiver 

With  the  sudden  blow !     And  then  she  wheeled, 

Restively  pawing  the  watery  field, 

Angered  to  feel  the  clinging  check 

Of  the  shoreward  cable  about  her  neck. 

The  sea,  to  one  of  its  slumberous  calms, 
Now  sunk  as  it  never  would  waken  more  : 


100  THE     HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA. 

Its  breakers  were  only  as  flocks  of  lambs 
Bleating  and  gambolling  along  the  shore, 
Where  of  late  the  storm-lion  insane 
Had  shaken  abroad  his  tumultuous  mane, 
Frightening  the  land  with  his  rage  and  his  roar. 
Bound  the  headland  to  a  little  bay 
They  led  the  shallop  and  drew  it  to  land, 
Till  at  the  golden  beach  it  lay 
With  its  keel  on  the  smooth  wet  sand. 

How  haughtily  the  gilded  prow 

Lifted  its  yawning,  dragon  head ! 

And  backward  —  shaping  the  graceful  bow  — 

The  dragon's  flying  wings  were  spread; 

Where  its  curious  name, 

In  letters  of  flame, 

Burned  in  ciphers  of  golden  red : 

Lo!   there  she  stood,  as  fresh  and  staunch 

And  bright  as  at  her  birthday  launch. 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  101 


in. 


OUT  of  the  great  commercial  town, 

Summoned  by  the  bark's  renown, 

Came  the  masters  and  merchants  down, 

And  crowded  the  beach; 

While  with  gesture  and  speech, 

With  eyes  of  wide  wonder  and  looks  of  delight, 

They  declared  such  a  sight 

In  the  waters  of  Christendom  never  was  known. 

The  very  dragon  seemed  to  feel 

A  tremor  of  pleasure  that  thrilled  to  the  keel; 

And  like  a  lady  fair  and  proud, 

Flattered  by  praises  breathed  too  loud, 

The  shallop  withdrew  —  so  it  seemed  to  the  crowd 

And  somewhat  stiffly  its  acknowledgment  bowed. 


102  THE    HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

But  perchance  it  was  only  the  swell 

Of  the  waters  that  under  her  rose  and  fell. 

And  there  were  builders,  with  rule  and  line, 

Measuring  its  breadth  and  length, 

Gathering  its  secret  of  grace  and  strength; 

While,  sitting  on  the  sand, 

With  accurate  and  dexterous  hand, 

An  artist  secured  the  fair  design. 

Singing  a  scrap  of  maniac  song, 

Agatha  pressed  through  the  wondering  throng, 

Bedecked  in  garlands  of  strange  device, 

As  if  for  a  heathen  sacrifice : 

She  scattered  blossoms  from  her  hand 

Around  the  keel  where  it  pressed  the  sand, 

Until  it  seemed  to  be  wading  through 

A  flowery  foam  of  various  hue, 

And  singing  still,  began  to  deck 

The  dragon's  curved  and  haughty  neck, 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  103 

Slipping  over  the  glittering  head 
A  garland  of  yellow,  and  blue,  and  red; 
And  then  withdrew  a  space,  to  admire 
The  beautiful  collar  of  floral  fire. 

When  the  fisherman  saw  his  child, 

And  heard  her  voice  so  strange  and  wild, 

Over  his  visage  scarred  and  tanned 

The  trouble  spread.     Then  he  knelt  on  the  sand, 

And  hiding  his  face  in  his  sunburnt  hand, 

He  sobbed  aloud,  while  the  tears  of  pain 

Through  his  fingers  trickled  plain, 

And  dropt  on  the  thirsty  ground  like  rain. 

i 

Along  the  beach  his  forsaken  net 
Lay  weltering  in  the  briny  wet, 
Where  the  scaly  things  in  their  despair 
Were  struggling  in  their  tangled  snare, 
Flashing  their  silvery  sides  in  air. 


104  THE     HOUSE     BY    TUB     SEA. 

Around  the  shore  in  the  sunshine  bright, 

Like  webs  of  those  invisible  looms 

Whose  noiseless  shuttles  are  plied  at  night 

Among  the  briers  and  garden  blooms, 

Innumerable  nets  were  spread 

On  stake  and  fence,  and  over  the  head 

Of  many  a  low  marsh-willow,  to  dry  — 

The  delight,  until  now,  of  the  fisherman's  eye : 

For  each,  he  thought,  ere  the  season  was  o'er, 

With  a  miraculous  draught  would  come  to  shore. 

And  thereby  enable  him  proudly  to  pay 

His  daughter's  dower  on  her  wedding-day. 

But,  alas !   the  wary  Fates  had  cast 
Their  unseen  net  in  the  river  of  Life; 
And  all  his  hopes,  the  best  and  last, 
Were  dragged  to  land  with  a  fruitless  strife, 
To  pine  on  the  sand  without  relief, 
And  die  on  the  sunless  shores  of  grief. 


TOE     HOUSE     BY    THE    SEA.  105 


IV. 

DOWN  from  the  height, 

With  steps  as  light 

As  a  party  for  a  bridal  bedight, 

The  lady  and  the  monk  were  seen 

Gliding  through  the  pathway  green, 

While,  with  uneasy  tread 

And  drooping  head, 

With  one  arm  at  the  lady's  zone, 

And  one  on  the  friar's  shoulder  thrown, 

Pale  Roland  walked  between. 

They  seemed,  to  a  gazer  far  away, 

Like  a  happy  group  in  the  fields  of  May. 


106  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

Out  of  the  little  belfry  near, 

A  bell,  with  accents  loud  and  clear, 

Poured  its  pious  peal  abroad, 

To  turn  the  thoughts  of  men  to  God. 

Far  and  wide  through  the  valley  round 

Sailed  the  silver  wings  of  sound, — 

Like  a  flock  of  doves  rung  out, 

Wheeling  joyfully  about, 

Flashing  from  their  pinions  white 

A  sense  of  quiet  and  delight. 

The  lady,  as  before  a  shrine 

Suddenly  called  to  thoughts  divine, 

Dropt  upon  her  knees  straightway, 

With  hanging  head  that  seemed  to  pray. 

And  as  one  who  stumbles  with  a  curse  and  a  groan, 

The  monk  fell  In  the  pathway  prone, 

And  lay,  like  a  statue  overthrown; 

Muttering  harshly  to  the  air 

Something  that  passed  for  a  hurried  prayer. 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  107 

And  when  the  bell  was  done,  he  rose 

Ked  in  the  face  as  a  furnace  glows  — 

And  cried,   "  Now,  hang  that  sacristan  ! 

What  pious  crank  has  got  into  the  man, 

Thus  to  be  ringing  a  vesper  tune 

In  the  very  middle  of  afternoon? 

It  takes  one  down  so  unawares 

That  one  can  scarcely  remember  his  prayers ! 

And  besides,  we  have  an  old  tradition, 

Which  may  be  merely  superstition, 

That  when  one  kneels  and  forgets  his  prayer, 

The  Devil  is  also  kneeling  there !" 

The  crowd  gave  way  as  the  party  neared : 
And  much  they  marvelled  at  the  friar's  beard, 
Hanging  so  long  with  crispy  flow, 
Like  a  winter  hemlock's  barb  of  snow. 
But  when  with  wondering  eyes  they  saw 
The  lady,  they  held  their  breath  with  awe, 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE    SEA. 

Transfixed  and  speechless  with  the  sense 

Of  beauty's  rare  magnificence. 

All  bared  their  brows  as  she  passed  between, 

Bowing  like  subjects  to  a  queen. 

The  monk  straightway  regained  his  mood, 

And  blessed  the  courteous  multitude; 

For  he  thought  such  deference  alone  could  be 

Paid  to  his  age  and  piety. 

When  the  lady  beheld  the  maid 

In  her  tawdry  veil  of  flowers  arrayed, 

She  pressed  her  with  a  warm  embrace; 

And  smoothing  the  wild  locks  from  her  face, 

Printed  a  kiss  upon  her  brow, 

Which  brought  to  her  forehead  the  crimson  glow, 

As  if  smitten  by  the  sudden  blow 

Of  a  fiery  hand!     Then  said,  in  accents  gay, 

"  Come,  my  sweet  friend,  come  away, — 

You  must  go  with  us  to-day. 


THE     HOUSE     HY     THE     SEA.  109 

Under  the  shadowy  sail  we'll  sit, 
While  our  fairy  bark  shall  flit 
Like  a  swallow  that  stoops  to  lave 
Its  burnished  bosom  in  the  wave, 
Just  tipping  with  its  airy  breast 
The  enamoured  billow's  eager  crest !" 

Straightway,  without  more  remark, 
The  jubilant  party  gained  the  bark. 
Then  the  monk  came  to  the  bow, 
And  overleaning  the  dragon  prow, 
A  moment  anxiously  scanned  the  crowd, 
And  cried,  in  a  voice  of  mirth  aloud, 
"Who  is  there  here  so  loves  the  sea 
That  he  will  bear  us  company? 
One  who  knows  the  billowy  realm, 
To  trim  the  sail  and  to  set  the  helm? 
Who  will  man  our  little  ship 
For  a  three-hours'  pleasure  trip?" 


110  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

Up  stepped  the  fisherman;   but  ere 

His  feet  had  touched  the  slanting  plank, 

He  staggered  back,  and  shuddering  sank, 

Like  one  who  swoons  with  sudden  fear ! 

Then  shouldering  his  way  till  he  gained  the  sand, 

A  withered  sailor,  wrinkled  and  tanned, 

Holding  a  piece  of  a  helm  in  his  hand, 

And  twitching  his  waistband  with  swaggering  air, 

Cried,   "Avast  there,  my  hearty! 

While  I'm  of  your  party, 

You'll  scarcely  be  wanting  these  land-lubbers  there  ' 

Oh,  ho  !     I'll  be  bound 

That  you  thought  I  was  drowned, 

Because  I  plunged  overboard  into  the  dark ! 

But  with  this  stout  piece  of  helm, 

What  sea  could  overwhelm 

A  sailor  who  fears  neither  billow  nor  shark? — 

Who  on  a  fragment  of  wreck 

Sits  as  safe  as  on  deck, 

And  brings  it  to  shore  like  a  well-guided  bark?" 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  HI 

The  lady  laughed  with  joy  insane 

When  she  beheld  the  skipper  again. 

With  a  bound  and  a  leap,  he  cleared  the  side 

And  strode  the  deck  with  his  former  pride: 

Once  more  he  leaned  against  the  helm  — 

Once  more  he  was  lord  of  the  watery  realm ! 


112  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 


V. 


THE  cable  was  loosed — the  bark  was  free, 

And  like  a  white  sea-bird,  it  flew  to  the  sea. 

Of  all  the  shapes  that  swim 

Through  the  ether  blue  and  dim, 

Or  over  the  swinging  ocean  skim, 

With  their  lifted  plumes  for  sails 

Set  before  the  summer  gales  — 

Or  on  enchanted  lakes  the  swan, — 

Or  the  swift  wind-footed  fawn, 

None  might  with  that  fairy  bark  compare, 

Less  in  the  water  than  in  the  air, 

As  she  sped  from  shore  through  $  track  of  foam, 

With  the  sudden  joy  and  speed 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  113 

Of  the  carrier-bird  when  its  wings  are  freed 
And  it  darts  from  its  alien  tower  for  home! 
Flying  away  with  its  white  sail  full, 
It  doubled  the  headland  like  a  gull, 
That,  careening  suddenly,  seems  to  dip 
In  the  flashing  brine  its  white  wing's  tip. 
Then  up  and  down  the  coast  it  bore  — 
In  and  out,  as  it  would  explore 
The  hundred  inlets  of  the  shore  ! 

With  all  her  garments  fluttering  wild, 
On  the  deck  the  fisherman's  child 
Stood  by  the  lady,  who  proudly  sat 
On  a  little  throne  —  where  an  Indian  mat 
Mantled  the  floor,  like  a  flowery  moss 
Where  Mab  and  her  fairies  gambol  and  toss, 
And  covered  with  figures  of  strange  device, 
And  scented  with  odours  of  orient  spice, 
Which  rose  like  an  incense  heavy  and  sweet 
When  the  lady  stirred  her  delicate  feet. 


114  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

The  maiden  stood  robbing  her  own  bright  hair 

To  garland  the  lady's  locks  less  fair: 

The  scarlet  wreath  seemed  a  brighter  red 

As  it  gilded  the  braids  of  that  darker  head, — 

And  the  poisonous  berries  livelier  shone 

Like  crimson  embers  newly  blown. 

It  seemed  a  chaplet  fit  for  Fame 

To  bind  on  the  brazen  brow  of  Shame, 

The  guerdon  of  deeds  which  have  no  name! — 

Like  Evening  wreathed  with  sunset  flame, 

The  lady  sat;  and  in  her  eyes, 

Like  shadows  which  the  day  defies, 

Nursed  by  the  darkness,  there  seemed  to  rise 

Thoughts  which  on  the  black  wings  fly 

Of  sin-engendered  mystery! 

Still  humming  a  scrap  of  maniac  tune, 
The  maiden  stood,  like  frenzied  May, 
At  the  close  of  her  last  sweet  day 
Casting  all  her  blossoms  away 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  115 

Into  the  burning  lap  of  June! 
Stripping  herself  of  every  flower 
She  shed  them  all,  a  fiery  shower, 
Over  the  lady,  till  she  was  as  bright 
As  a  statue  decked  with  lamps  at  night, — 
Those  little  lamps  of  various  hue, 
Scarlet,  purple,  green,  and  blue, 
Which  in  myriads  star  the  dark 
In  a  royal  festive  park. 

Many  a  venomous  brier  and  burr 
Among  the  rest  she  gave  to  her:  — 
There  were  slips  of  hemlock,  tips  of  fir, 
Mingled  with  leaves  of  juniper; 
Monkshood  flower  and  mandragore, 
Henbane  rank  and  hellebore, 
And  nightshade  breathing  deadly  malice; 
And  there  was  the  foxglove's  purple  chalice 
Full  of  bane;  but  which,  'tis  said, 
Hath  power  to  thrill  and  move  the  dead. 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     8EA. 

And  there,  like  goblets  brimming  red 

Stolen  from  a  demon's  palace, 

Shone  the  poppies,  naming  bright; 

And  those  which  had  a  withered  look 

At  the  lady's  touch  fresh  vigour  took, 

As  if  it  did  their  lives  renew 

With  a  taste  of  their  own  noxious  dew; 

Even  as  stars  that  wilt  in  the  light 

Kevive  again  in  the  lap  of  Night,— 

Thus  each,  like  Mars,  refreshed  with  fire, 

Flamed  where  they  lay;  while  high  and  higher, 

Heaving  with  a  strange  desire, 

The  lady's  breast  'gan  swell;  and  she 

Kissed  the  maid  with  unwonted  glee, — 

The  maid  who,  without  a  blossom  left, 

Looked  scarce  less  lovely  thus  bereft,— 

While  the  other  shone  as  gorgeous  and  gay 

As  if  she  were  decked  for  a  queen  of  May 

In  a  fiery  tropic  far  away! 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  117 


VI. 


Low  at  her  feet  pale  Roland  sat, 

Gazing  up  in  her  radiant  face; 

And  said,  "In  such  a  time  and  place 

How  sweet  were  song,  did  thy  voice  but  grace 

The  air  with  melody !"     Whereat 

The  crowned  lady  smiled,  and  sent 

Her  glance  to  a  little  instrument 

Which  a  crimson  cord  made  fast 

Up  at  the  side  of  the  polished  mast; 

And  without  further  sign  or  command, 

Roland  placed  it  in  her  hand. 

It  was  a  curious  instrument, 
A  kind  of  Persian  mandolin, 


118  THE      HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA. 

Found  perchance  in  an  Arab's  tent, 

With  every  manner  of  gem  besprent, 

And  wrought  with  all  that  tracery 

Which  Eastern  art  is  cunning  in  : 

The  body  was  ribbed  like  a  shell  of  the  sea, 

Yet  black,  and  burnished  as  ebony; 

The  graceful  neck  was  long  and  thin, 

Where  the  cords  ran  up  to  golden  keys; 

And  it  looked  as  it  had  only  been 

Waked  to  mysterious  melodies, 

On  phantom  lakes  and  enchanted  seas, 

Flashing  to  fingers  weird  and  wan, 

In  the  minstrel  ages  lost  and  gone. 

Waiting  to  hear  the  wakened  lute, 

The  very  air  and  the  sea  hung  mute; 

And  the  maiden,  breathless  with  listening  desire, 

Crouched  silently  down  at  the  side  of  the  friar. 

The  lady's  fingers,  like  swift  wings, 

Over  the  flashing  cordage  stirred, 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  119 

Till  music,  like  an  answering  bird, 

Suddenly  leaped  from  out  the  strings. 

Round  and  round  the  cadence  flew, 

Sailing  aloft  and  dropping  low, 

Now  soaring  with  the  wild  sea-mew, 

Flushing  its  breast  in  the  sunset  glow, 

Then  slowly  dropping  down  the  air, 

Wailing  with  a  wild  despair, 

Down  and  down, 

Till  it  seemed  to  drown, 

"With  wide  pinions  on  the  brine, 

Weltering  with  no  living  sign, 

Till  the  listener's  pitying  eye 

Wept  that  so  fair  a  thing  should  die. 

Then  with  malicious  laughter  loud, 

Jeering  the  sighing  hearer's  grief, 

In  a  moment  wild  and  brief, 

Filling  the  air  with  mockery, 

It  leapt  to  the  sky  and  pierced  the  cloud, 

Soaring  and  soaring,  till  it  seemed  to  be 


120  THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA. 

Climbing  to  the  airy  throne, 
Where  the  Thunder  sits  alone. 

Roland  listened,  confused,  amazed, 

While  an  unknown  frenzy  thrilled  his  heart ; 

And  Agatha  on  the  lady  gazed 

With  steadfast  eyes  and  lips  apart; 

And  there  sat  the  friar  smoothing  his  beard, 

As  into  the  maiden's  eyes  he  peered 

With  a  sidelong  sinister  glance; 

While  she,  as  one  in  a  charmed  trance, 

Bending  forward,  could  only  see 

Roland  leaning  on  the  lady's  knee, 

With  pale,  bewildered  countenance, 

Grazing  up  in  her  face,  which  beamed 

As  if  a  torchlight  on  it  gleamed; 

And  flushed  as  with  an  orient  wine, 

Where  passion's  swift  and  fitful  flame 

On  the  breath  of  music  went  and  came 

Like  a  gusty  blaze  on  a  heathen  shrine. 


THE     HOUSE     BY     THE     SEA.  121 

"'Tis  a  sight  to  make  a  graybeard  feel," 
Exclaimed  the  monk,  "his  old  heart  reel, 
E'en  though  it  beats  in  the  breast  of  a  friar ! 
Old  age  is  a  rust  which  may  conceal; 
But  under  it  there  is  the  tempered  steel 
Holding  its  latent  spark  of  fire. 

"See  how  he  looks  in  the  lady's  face, 
And  how  her  dark  eyes  gloat  on  him ! 
In  each  other's  soul  they  gaze,  and  trace 
Thoughts  which  to  us  are  vague  and  dim. 

"Ah  me!   it  recalls  that  hour  divine, 
In  a  palace  garden  at  day's  decline, 
When  a  youth  beneath  a  Sicilian  vine 
Sat  with  a  lady,  and  she  was  crowned 
With  scarlet  flowers  and  leaves  embrowned, 
Even  as  they  had  been  seared  to  death 
In  the  hot  sirocco  of  passion's  breath ! 


122  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Oh?  how  she  played !     The  hours  were  drowned 
In  goblets  of  music,  and  love,  and  wine ! 
But,  well-a-day  !  —  for  that  same  sin 
The  youth  became  a  Capuchin!" 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  123 


VII. 

EVERY  word  of  the  garrulous  monk 

Into  the  maiden's  sad  heart  sunk, 

With  a  dreary  plunge  and  spasm 

Sinking  through  the  aching  chasm, 

As  desperate  shapes  of  agony 

Leap  from  a  burning  ship  at  sea! 

And  as  she  gazed  on  the  lovers  there, 

Every  hope  in  her  breast  of  despair — 

Hopes  which  until  now  unknown 

Had  thronged  her  heart,  with  a  sigh  and  a  groan 

Dropt  away  through  the  dusky  waves 

Low  and  lower  to  their  briny  graves, 

With  downward  face  and  wide-spread  hair! 


124  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

Was  it  Love  —  or  was  it  Hate  — 
The  hate  of  bitter  Jealousy  — 
Or  conscious  of  being  desolate  — 
Or  was  it  the  combined  three 
That  thrilled  the  maiden  suddenly, 
Like  variant  winds  that  smite  and  wake 
The  waters  of  a  summer  lake? 

"See!"    said  the  lady  with  a  glance  of  glee, 
"How  the  dear  child  looks  at  us! 
Why  stares  she  so?      Why  breathes  she  thus? 
As  if  her  heart  were  parching  to  dust 
In  a  roaring  and  raging  furnace-gust! 
Ah,  Roland,  it  is  plain  to  see 
This  is  all  for  the  love  of  thee! 

"Oh,  it  is  a  pity  and  shame 
To  see  a  young  heart  thus  consumed  — 
Even  though  it  burns  self-doomed 
In  an  unrequited  flame!" 


THE     HOUSE    BY  THE     SEA.  125 

Thus  speaking,  the  lady  with  looks  of  pity, 
"Vfoke  the  prelude  of  a  strange  wild  ditty; 
Touching  the  lute  with  a  gentler  sweep, 
She  poured  from  her  bosom,  full  and  deep, 
A  burst  of  song  that  rose  and  fell 
"With  a  heavy  and  heated  and  stifling  swell, 
As  fanned  from  a  tropical  garden  in  bloom 
By  the  sultry  wings  of  a  far  simoom! 

"A  princess  dwelt  beneath  the  sea, 

In  a  palace  of  coral  and  pearl;  — 
Her  liquid  chambers  wide  and  free 
Were  lined  with  soft  green  tapestry, 
Where  a  thousand  suitors  bent  the  knee; 
But  her  lip  wore  a  scornful  curl. 

"There  day  by  day  she  seemed  to  pine, 

In  her  palace  of  coral  and  pearl;  — 
Thronging  the  halls  of  the  crystal  brine, 
In  vain  they  came  in  a  nattering  line, 


126  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

With  the  wealth  of  every  Indian  mine, 
King,  Prince  and  Duke  and  Earl. 

"But  her  heart  was  wandering  far  away 

From  her  palace  of  coral  and  pearl;  — 
Seeking  the  realm  of  the  upper  day, 
Sighing  as  April  sighs  for  May, 
Through  her  emerald  roof  she  saw  the  ray, 
Like  a  flag  at  morn,  unfurl. 

"For  she,  like  many  a  princess  before, 
In  her  palace  of  coral  and  pearl, 

Had  dreamed  of  one  on  a  foreign  shore, 

The  only  one  her  soul  could  adore, 

And  thither  her  thoughts  went  more  and  more, 
Till   her  weary  brain  'gan  whirl! 

U'I  pine/  she  cried,  ' alone,  alone!' 

In  her  palace  of  coral  and  pearl:  — 
'I  pine  and  perish  where  hope  is  none! 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  127 

Would  I  were  sailing  with  the  sun, 
Would  that  the  home  of  my  love  were  won. 
Though  he  spurned  me  like  a  churl! 

"But  like  a  dull  sea- weed  I  cling 

To  this  palace  of  coral  and  pearl!  — 
Though  round  me  the  crystal  alcoves  ring 
With  praises  my  syren  subjects  sing, 
Yet  hopeless  I  pine  as  he  were  a  king, 
And  I  a  poor  peasant-girl!'" 

She  ceased;    but  ere  the  sound  had  passed, 
The  skippers'  voice,  like  a  rattling  blast 
Blown  through  empty  spar  and  shroud, 
Announcing  the  tempest-bearing  cloud, 
Took  up  the  strain,  while  he  pressed  the  helm, 
Still  looking  the  lord  of  the  watery  realm; 
And  as  he  sung  the  instrument 
Its  wild  accompanying  cadence  lent:  — 


128  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

"A  monarch  reigned  beneath  the  sea 

On  the  wreck  of  a  myriad  thrones, — 
The  collected  ruins  of  Tyranny, 
Shattered  by  the  hand  of  Destiny, 
And  scattered  abroad  with  maniac  glee, 
Like  a  gibbeted  pirate's  bones. 

"  Alone,  supreme,  he  reigned  apart, 

On  the  throne  of  a  myriad  thrones, — 
Where  sitting  close  to  the  world's  red  heart, 
Which  pulsed  swift  heat  through  his  ocean  mart, 
He  could  hear  each  heavy  throe  and  start, 
As  she  heaved  her  earthquake  groans. 

"He  gazed  through  the  shadowy  deep  which  shields 

His  throne  of  a  myriad  thrones, — 
And  saw  the  many  variant  keels 
Driving  over  the  watery  fields, 
Some  with  thunderous  and  flashing  wheels 
Linking  the  remotest  zones. 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  129 

"Oft,  like  an  eagle  that  swoops  in  air, 

He  saw  from  his  throne  of  thrones, 
The  winge'd  anchors  with  eager  stare 
Leap  midway  down  to  the  ocean's  lair — 
While  hanging  plummets  gazed  in  despair 
At  the  unreached  sands  and  stones ! 

"  Along  his  realm  lie  mountainous  bulks, 

The  tribute  to  his  throne  of  thrones, — 
The  merchant's  and  the  pirate's  hulks, — 
And  where  the  ghost  of  the  slaver  skulks, 
Counting  his  cargo, —  then  swears  and  sulks 
Among  the  manacled  bones ! 

"His  navy  numbers  many  a  bark, 

The  pride  of  his  throne  of  thrones  :  — 

Golden  by  day  and  fiery  by  dark, 

Each  cleaves  his  pathway  like  a  shark  ! 

But  his  favourite  barge  is  a  dragon-ark, 
The  fairest  ship  he  owns ! 


130  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

"The  voice  of  that  princess  beneath  the  sea 
Reached  to  his  throne  of  thrones;  — 
Then  he  leaped  in  his  barge  right  gallantly- 
And  cried,  'My  child,  come  sail  with  nie, 
We  will  flash  to  sunward  far  and  free, 
Till  love  for  thy  grief  atones !' " 

The  skipper  ceased.     ;Twas  but  a  lull 
In  the  gale  of  song !     With  bosom  full 
As  some  gigantic  organ-bellows, 
Worked  by  the  hands  of  officious  fellows, 
While  the  priest  at  the  altar  white 
Is  slowly  chanting  a  sacred  rite, 
The  monk  burst  forth  with  a  gusty  roar, 
That  seemed  to  echo  along  the  shore:  — 

"An  abbot  dwelt  beneath  the  sea 

In  a  cloister  of  shell  and  weed;  — 
Its  walls  of  curious  masonry 
Were  built  by  the  ocean  peasantry, 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  131 

Those  merman  slaves,  whose  supple  knee 
Loves  best  a  mysterious  creed. 

"And  he  was  so  virtuous,  the  story  runs, 
In  his  cloister  of  shell  and  weed  — 
That  the  pious  mermen,  fathers  and  sons, 
Their  daughters  and  sisters,  the  fairest  ones, 
Brought  to  his  charge,  till  a  thousand  nuns 
Chanted  his  mystical  creed. 

"And  he  had  control  of  a  thousand  friars, 
In  his  cloister  of  shell  and  weed;  — 
He  taught  them  to  chasten  all  worldly  desires, 
To  smother  with  prayer  all  carnal  fires; — 
Not  to  be  drunkards,  and  not  to  be  liars, 
Or  gluttons  of  boundless  greed ! 

"And  warned  them, — but  this  was  a  slander  base, — 

In  his  cloister  of  shell  and  weed, — 
Not  to  be  like  that  earthly  race 


132  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

Who  had  brought  the  system  into  disgrace, 
Till  the  Devil  himself  grew  red  in  the  face 
At  sins  he  had  never  decreed! 

"This  abbot  heard,  through  the  sedgy  grate 

Of  his  cloister  of  shell  and  weed, 
The  woful  princess  bewailing  her  fate, 
Then  saw  the  approaching  barge  of  state — 
And  closing  his  missal  and  locking  his  gate, 
He  leaped  aboard  with  speed. 

"A  scion  of  Church  and  State  was  he, 

In  his  cloister  of  shell  and  weed, — 
And  well  he  knew  if  a  wedding  should  be, 
That  he  as  chief  prelate  under  the  sea, 
Must  be  there  to  perform  the  solemn  decree, 
To  sign  and  to  seal  the  deed!" 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  133 


VIII. 

WHILE  the  songs  were  sung,  each  passing  breath 

Seemed  breathed  from  the  feverish  breast  of  Death 

All  the  air  which  had  heard  the  tune 

Hung  sultry  and  heavy  and  dead, 

Pulsed  through  and  through  with  flushes  of  red, 

And  hot  as  a  broad,  unshielded  noon 

In  a  fiery  clime  at  the  end  of  June. 

In  the  purple  sky,  an  hour  too  soon, 

Like  a  wedding-bark  await 

At  a  Venetian  palace-gate, 

Floated  the  empty,  crescent  moon, 

Moored  at  a  crimson  cloud, — a  barge  of  state 

In  the  sunset's  broad  lagune. 


134  THE    HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

But  to  Agatha  that  cloud 

Seemed  like  a  world  consuming  with  fire — 

Whereon  the  avenging  sun  had  breathed  his  ire! 

And  the  moon  was  only  a  poor  corpse  in  a  shroud, 

Which  had  been  shot  from  a  bark  forlorn 

Into  the  tranquil  sea  at  morn, 

That  rose  at  eve  a  ghastly  sight, 

To  blanch  the  mariner's  cheek  with  fright! 

Incongruous  fancies,  a  maniac  crowd, 

Leaped  through  her  brain,  and  shrieked  aloud  j 

While,  as  to  a  blighting  gust 

Of  red  ashes  and  dust, 

With  a  desperate  wail  her  sad  soul  bowed. 

And  when  with  dry,  hot  eyes  she  saw — 

Each  throbbing  like  a  burning  heart— 

The  glowing  lady  lean  and  draw 

Roland  close  to  her  heaving  side, 

And  smoothing  his  floating  locks  apart, 

With  looks  of  mingled  passion  and  pride, 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  135 

Press  on  his  brow  a  heated  kiss, — 
Her  heart,  as  one  in  a  nightmare  dream, 
Striving  with  fruitless  effort  to  scream, 
Seemed  plunging  down  a  black  abyss. 

But  when  the  lady,  with  sidelong  eyes 

Half-veiled  in  mocking  hate's  eclipse, — • 

A  look  which  pitied,  yet  seemed  to  despise  — 

Glanced  at  the  maiden's  face  of  despair, 

And  bending  down  and  down  with  triumphant  air, 

Set  the  hot  seal  of  her  love  on  his  lips  — 

There  was  more  than  a  frenzied  soul  could  bear! 

A  sudden  shriek  —  wild,  sharp,  and  shrill! 

A  plunge! — a  gurgle!  —  a  widening  thrill 

Rippling  the  water!     And  all  was  still! 

"Oh,  see!"  cried  the  lady,—  "0  Roland,  behold! 
She  has  leapt  in  the  sea! 
She  is  drowned  in  the  sea! 
And  it  is  all  for  the  love  of  thee! 


136  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

Her  heart  was  so  warm,  and  your  blood  was  so  cold  !'J 

"By  Heaven!"  he  cried;  "it  shall  not  be!" 

Then  another  plunge  and  another  thrill 

Rippled  the  wave;  and  a  voice  as  shrill 

As  ever  a  fiend  could  shout  in  glee, 

Cried,  "Adieu!  adieu! 

Till  we  meet  anew 

In  our  palace  of  splendour  far  under  the  sea!" 

And  all  the  air,  the  moment  after, 

Was  filled  with  wild  demoniac  laughter — 

And  like  swift  hounds  in  pursuit  of  a  wolf, 

Sudden  flaws  from  the  leash  of  the  gale 

Leapt  upon  the  straining  sail, 

And  chased  it  over  the  flashing  gulf. 

Away  and  away,  with  a  murderous  flight, 

Sped  the  bark, — away  and  away! 

Doubling  the  headland  into  the  bay, 

Like  a  red-handed  homicide  flying  from  sight! 


THE    HOUSE     BY   THE     SEA.  137 


IX. 


THE  toil,  the  danger  and  despair 

Struggling  with  hope  in  that  brief  moment  there, 

May  not  be  chronicled  or  said; 

Or  how  it  seemed  from  ocean's  shadowy  bed 

That  demon  shapes  leapt  up,  with  murderous  hands, 

Striving  to  pluck  the  desperate  swimmer  down, 

That  with  his  burden  he  might  sink  and  drown, 

And  lie  supine  upon  the  charnel  sands. 

But  still  he  laboured;  —  and  a  form  divine, 
Such  as  an  angel  clothed  in  sunshine  hath, 
Glimmered  before  him,  walking  on  the  brine  — 
Slow  leading  shoreward  in  a  golden  path. 
And  well  he  knew  'twas  that  sweet  pitying  sprite 
Which  he  had  driven  into  the  howling  night! 


138  THE    HOUSE    BY     THE    SEA. 

But  now  her  pale  lips  seemed  to  move 
Forgivingly  with  smiles  of  love, — 
Until  his  heart  with  hope  beat  high  and  warm, 
And  a  new  impulse  nerved  his  struggling  arm. 

Anon  his  feet  were  on  the  slanting  sands, 
Where  slow  he  toiled  with  the  increasing  weight, 
Which,  like  a  sea-weed  stranded,  desolate, 
Hung  o'er  his  arm  with  dripping  hair  and  hands. 
And  now  wild  groups  came  down  the  sloping  lands, 
Looming  gigantic  'gainst  the  level  sun, 
And  their  long  shadows  to  the  beach  did  run 
Precipitate  with  uncontrolled  wo  — 
Outstripping  those  who  followed!     Till  anon 
Around  the  melancholy  show 
The  people  gathered,  and  with  faces  wan 
Told  their  great  grief  as  only  mourners  can 
Who  loved  the  thing  they  mourn  from  the  hour  its 
life  began! 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  139 

Foremost  her  sire,  a  wild  disconsolate  man, 

Mingled  with  the  wet  grief  of  the  sea 

The  tears  of  his  tempest  agony, 

Which  like  baptismal  waters  ran 

Over  her  breathless  breast,  as  from  the  hand 

Of  the  pale  priestess  Sorrow  flung, 

Naming  her  one  of  that  most  enviable  band 

Whom  loving  Death  has  ta'en  into  his  land 

While  beautiful  and  young — 

Into  the  land  of  May,  forever  green, 

To  be  crowned  with  virgin  flowers  immortally  a  queen. 

With  shreds  of  white  hair  sorrowing  in  the  breeze, 
The  village  priest  leant  o'er  her  with  a  prayer; 
And  then  he  said,  "Let  loving  arms  of  care 
Take  up  this  mournful  victim  of  the  seas, 
And  bear  her  to  the  church,  and  on  a  bier 
Lay  her  before  the  sacred  altar-shrine, 
Where  the  mild  Saviour,  with  His  eyes  divine, 
Looks  peace  to  grief,  and  hope  to  those  who  fear; 


140  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA. 

And  as  he  lifted  Jairus'  child  from  death, 
He  may  renew  even  here  the  life-reviving  breath/' 
And  as  he  bade  they  bore  her;   while  behind 
Pale  Roland  followed  with  bewildered  mind. 


THE     HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA.  141 


X. 


WHEN  they  had  gained  the  little  chapel  door, 
And  were  about  to  cross  the  sacred  sill, 
Their  drowned  burden,  breathless  as  before, 
The  anxious  crowd  beheld,  with  sudden  thrill, 
The  serpent  ring  her  dripping  right-hand  bore 
Leap  from  her  finger  and  as  lightning  pass, 
Flashing  between  their  feet, 
Searing  the  ground  with  heat, 
A  crooked  flame  that  vanished  in  the  grass. 

Then  straightway  to  the  maiden's  cheek 
Flushed  up  a  little  dawn  of  life; 


142  THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA. 

And  her  waking  pulses,  weary  and  weak, 

In  their  recovery  seemed  to  speak 

Of  the  long  and  maddening  strife, 

Of  the  maniac  dreams  which  had  filled  her  brain, 

While  her  heart  lay  stunned  in  its  night  of  pain. 

And  when  at  the  altar-shrine 

They  laid  her  like  a  corpse  supine, 

Scarce  noting  the  life-announcing  sign, 

Then  Roland  fell  on  his  knees,  and  pressed 

Her  cold  white  hands  to  his  aching  breast : 

And  instantly  the  long  frozen  pain 

Which  had  oppressed  and  benumbed  his  brain, 

Seemed  to  melt  in  a  repentant  glow, 

And  in  floods  of  tears  to  his  eyelids  flow, 

Till  his  sad  heart  felt  like  an  arid  plain 

That  is  drenched  with  a  generous  summer  rain. 

Was  it  the  sunset's  parting  beam 
Piercing  the  little  window  red? 


THE    HOUSE    BY    THE    SEA.  143 

Or  was  it  the  lightning's  vivid  gleam 

Through  the  startled  twilight  shed? 

They  only  knew  a  crimson  flush, 

Making  the  sacred  shadows  blush, 

Shot  up  the  aisle,  as  if  the  fiery  rays 

Of  a  meteor-ball  had  set  the  air  ablaze : 

And  then  a  baleful  voice 

Drew  their  eyes  to  the  door  away; 

And  all  could  plainly  hear  it  say, 

"  Come,  Roland,  come  !     Thou  hast  no  choice : 

Thou  shalt  not,  darest  not  stay : 

The  prayer  which  thou  must  learn  to  pray 

At  another  altar  must  be  made, 

And  thy  vows  to  another  God  be  paid!" 

And  gazing  through  the  door,  they  saw 
The  lady  and  monk  beyond  the  sill; 
And  every  breast  was  filled  with  awe, 
And  every  pulse  ran  chill. 


144  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

They  stood  like  travellers  in  the  night, 
Surrounded  by  a  blazing  light, 
Who  see  the  eyes  of  the  wolf  and  pard, 
Fixed  with  wild  and  eager  desire, 
Insane  with  hunger,  and  only  debarred 
By  a  living  threshold  of  circling  fire. 

Then  Roland  cried,  "  Avaunt !   avaunt ! 

Here  at  this  holy  altar  I  swear, 

By  my  future  hopes  and  my  past  despair, 

To  fly  from  the  fiends  and  that  lonely  haunt, 

With  pain,  and  wo,  and  demons  rife ! 

And  if  once  this  sweet  maid  come  to  life, 

To  claim  her  my  bride !     And  in  token  of  this, 

I  set  on  her  lips  this  sealing  kiss !" 

He  spake  and  bowed — lips  touched  to  lips; 
And  as  a  taper,  when  the  gusty  dark 
Has  blown  its  splendour  into  eclipse, 
While  its  wick  still  holds  the  crimson  spark, 


THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA.  145 

Which,  touching  another  taper's  rays, 
Instantly  stands  in  the  air  ablaze, — 
So  life,  in  a  swift  contagious  flame, 
Suddenly  illumined  the  maiden's  frame ! 

A  moment  surveying  the  sacred  place, 

Her  blue  eyes  turned,  then  with  modest  grace 

Grazing  up  into  Roland's  face, 

Her  sweet  tongue  said,  in  its  first  release, 

With   words   which   seemed   breathed    from   the   lips 

of  peace — 

"  The  spell  is  past !     Oh,  hour  divine  ! 
Thou,  thou  art  mine !    and  I  am  thine  !" 

And  the  listening  shadows  cool  and  gray, 
In  the  gallery,  like  a  responding  choir, 
Where  the  organ  glowed  like  an  altar-fire, 
Seemed  to  the  echoing  vault  to  say, 
Softly  as  at  a  nuptial  shrine  — 

"Thou  art  mine!    and  I  am  thine !" 
10 


146  THE     HOUSE    BY     THE     SEA. 

And  still  through  the  breathless  moments  after, 

Like  doves  beneath  the  sheltering  rafter, 

Along  the  roof  in  faint  decline, 

The  echoes  whispered  with  voices  fine  — 

"  Mine  and  thine !   mine  and  thine  !'; 

And  now,  like  a  golden  trumpet,  blown 
To  make  a  glorious  victory  known, 
The  organ  with  its  roll  divine, 
Poured  abroad  from  its  thrilling  tongue 
"Words  the  sweetest  ever  sung  — 
"Mine  and  thine!   mine  and  thine!" 

And  up  in  the  tower  the  iron  bell 
Suddenly  felt  the  joyous  spell, 
And  flung  its  accents  clear  and  gay, 
As  if  it  were  rung  on  a  wedding-day; 
And  like  a  singer  swaying  his  head 
To  mark  the  time 
Of  some  happy  rhyme, 


THE     HOUSE    BY    THE     SEA.  147 

Breathing  his  heart  in  every  line, 

Thus  swayed  the  bell,  and  swaying  said — 

"Mine  and  thine!   mine  and  thine!" 


148  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 


XI. 

THE  lady  standing  beyond  the  door, 
Like  one  whose  despair  can  bear  no  more, 
Shrieked  a  fiendish  shriek  of  wrath; 
And,  with  a  hollow  sepulchral  sound, 
Her  body  fell  upon  the  ground 
And  lay  a  corpse  along  the  path! 

And  then  a  shadow,  like  a  cloud 

On  a  hissing  whirlwind  fierce  and  loud, 

Swept  seaward,  pierced  with  curses  and  shrieks, 

Which  like  the  lightning's  fiery  streaks 

Flashed  madly  through  the  twilight  shades, 

Cleavino-  the  air  with  sulphurous  blades! 


THE     HOUSE    BY  THE     SEA.  149 

Then  the  people  ran  to  the  headland  height 
With  the  fascination  of  wonder  and  fright, — 
And  saw  the  little  dragon  bark, 
Speeding  out  to  the  eastern  dark  — 
Away  and  away,  as  swift  and  bright 
As  a  red  flamingo's  sudden  flight. 

And  climbing  the  black  rocks  high  and  higher 
They  gazed  and  gazed  with  aching  sight, — 
Till  into  the  distant  realm  of  night 
They  saw  it  pass  —  a  ship  on  fire! 

Then  Roland,  who  gazed  on  the  body  which  lay 

In  the  path,  a  loathsome  shape  of  clay, 

Defiled  by  a  fiend  and  cast  away, 

Called  to  the  sturdy  sacristan, 

Who  came,  a  shuddering,  awe-struck  man, 

And  bade  him  with  his  graveyard  crew 

Bear  and  bury  the  thing  from  view. 


150  THE    HOUSE    BY  THE    SEA. 

But  when  they  strove,  with  fear  and  disgust, 

To  raise  that  form  which  once  had  been 

The  temple  of  Beauty  and  then  of  Sin, 

It  fell  from  their  hands  a  mass  of  dust,— 

Like  a  cavern  of  sand,  so  fragile  and  thin, 

That  a  single  touch  will  shatter  it  in;  — 

Or  like  a  long-consumed  brand, 

Whose  form  in  the  ashes  seems  to  stand, 

From  whence  the  hungry  flame  has  fled 

And  left  it  a  thing  devoured  and  dead, 

Which  the  lightest  touch  of  the  lifting  hand 

Shivers  to  nothing,  a  shapeless  mass;' — 

Thus  the  body  fell,  and  lay  on  the  grass 

A  crumbled  pile  at  their  startled  feet, 

As  if  it  had  been  consumed  by  the  heat 

Of  that  most  subtle  and  fiery  fiend 

Which  so  long  it  had  fearfully  harboured  and  screened ! 


THE     HOUSE    BY   THE     SEA.  151 

Days  dawned  and  set,  and  year  by  year 

The  bride  became  more  fair  and  dear; 

And  Roland  saw  with  secret  delight, 

As  her  face  grew  more  refined  and  bright, 

How  through  every  feature  it  seemed 

That  the  light  of  his  long-lost  Ida  beamed! 

And  by  degrees  her  softening  voice 

Like  Ida's  made  his  heart  rejoice; 

Until,  when  the  first  few  years  had  flown, 

He  forgot  that  his  early  love  had  died, 

And  walking  at  his  lady's  side, 

He  called  her  "Ida, "  and  she  replied 

To  the  name  as  it  had  been  her  own. 

Never  more  to  that  lonely  height, 
Where  only  the  wild  birds  of  the  sea 
Peopled  the  gusty  balcony, 
He  turned  his  feet;  but  lived  and  moved 
Among  his  fellows  —  revered,  beloved; 


152  THE     HOUSE     BY    THE     SEA. 

And  the  world  was  no  more  a  world  of  blight, 

But  a  realm  of  sunshine,  warm  and  bright. 

With  his  brooding  grief  no  longer  blind, 

This  simple  truth  his  soul  discerned, — 

And  well  it  were  for  all  mankind 

Plad  they  the  selfsame  lesson  learned, — 

That  it  is  not  in  the  world  abroad, 

In  the  sight  of  men  and  the  light  of  God, 

That  fierce  temptations  chiefly  dwell; 

But  in  the  misanthropic  cell, 

Where  the  selfish  passions  are  all  enshrined 

And  worshipped  by  one  darksome  mind. 


THE    END. 


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READ'S  ILLUSTRATED  POEMS. 

Poems,  by  T.  BUCHANAN  READ.  A  new  and  enlarged 
edition.  Beautifully  illustrated  with  designs  by  emi 
nent  artists,  and  finely  engraved  on  steel.  Cloth, 
extra,  gilt  edge  -  ....  $3.50 

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"  We  do  not  hesitate  to  declare  our  opinion  that  Mr.  READ  is  the  most  promising 
of  the  living  transatlantic  poets.  We  know  of  no  other  American  (with  the 
doubtful  exception  of  Edgar  Poe)  having  so  much  real  feeling  as  is  shown  in 
some  of  his  verses.  It  presents  a  refreshing  contrast  with  the  cold  and  clever 
manufactures  which  most  of  his  contemporaries -would  impose  upon  us  as  expres 
sions  of  feeling.  Mr.  READ  has  a  very  high  sense  of  natural  beauty :  this  kind 
of  description  is  his  forte.  We  offer  no  apology  for  quoting  the  whole  of  the 
exquisite  poem  called  '  The  Closing  Scene.'  This  is  unquestionably  the  best 
Anten'j:an  poem  we  have  met  with ;  indeed  it  is,  with  one  or  two  exceptions,  the  only 
American  poem  we  have  read,  or  could  have  read  over  and  over  again.  It  is  an 
addition  to  the  permanent  stock  of  poetry  in  the  English  language.  The  first 
thirteen  stanzas,  taken  by  themselves,  constitute  a  truly  inspired  little  poem. 
Tennyson  himself,  the  great  modern  master  of  that  kind  of  description  which 
employs  the  object  of  outward  nature  as  a  language  for  human  feeling,  has 
scarcely  surpassed,  in  its  way,  this  poem,  which  in  our  opinion  merits  the  fame 
that  Gray's  celebrated  'Elegy'  has  obtained,  without  deserving  it  nearly  so  well.  The 
feeling  of  the  three  opening  stanzas — the  only  unexceptionable  passage  of  more 
than  two  or  three  lines  in  Gray's  poem — is  here  sustained  to  a  far  greater  length, 
and  with  much  simpler  language  and  imagery.  Mr.  READ'S  volume  affords 
other  equally  remarkable  instances  of  perception  and  polish." — North  Britislt 
jReview. 

"It  is  pleasant  to  turn  to  a  volume  of  poetry  like  Mr.  READ'S,  and  not  the 
less  so,  as  enabling  us  to  pay  a  most  willing  tribute  to  American  genius.  When 
an  American  poet  is  not  only  known  but  reprinted  here,  it  is  clear  that  his 
genius  is  of  a  more  universal  and  general  character,  touching  the  heart  as  such, 
not  as  an  American  or  English  heart.  Pure,  tender,  sympathizing,  and  hopeful, 
with  an  eye  observant  of  nature  and  an  ear  well  trained  to  give  melodious 
expression  to  every  turn  of  thought — simple  and  unpretending  in  the  choice  of 
subjects,  but  touching  each  with  fresh,  genuine  feeling — there  are  not  many 
modern  writers  of  verse  who  have  supplied  us  with  such  a  pleasant  book  of 
desultory  reading.  *  *  *  *  One  poem,  called  '  The  Closing  Scene.'  in  which 
the  thoughts,  measure,  and  cadence  are  in  happy  harmony,  we  are  obliged  un 
willingly  to  curtail.  A  description  of  late  and  dreary  Autumn,  given  with 
American  accuracy  of  scene-painting,  ushers  in  a  picture  of  failing  and  sorrow 
ful  humanity." — Christian  Remembrancer,  (a  London  Quarterly  Review.) 

"A  poet,  whose  fame,  both  at  home  and  abroad,  heightens  with  each  succes 
sive  production,  and  widens  as  the  knowledge  of  his  work  extends."—  Willis  <& 
Morris's  Hume  Journal. 

"  The  volume  we  have  now  the  pleasure  of  introducing  to  our  readers  abounds 
with  delicately-pictured  images,  a  rich,  luxuriant  fancy,  and  high-toned  senti 
ments,  marked  bv  a  touching  and  polished  simplicity.  *  *  *  All  is  mirrored  in 
the  poet's  soul  like  the  beautifully  brilliant  foliage  which  his  genius  pictures 
on  the  bosom  of  the  quiet  stream  or  sequestered  lake." — American  Courts* 


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THE  NEW  PASTORAL. 

A  Poem.    By  THOS.  BUCHANAN  READ.     1  vol.  12mo, 
cloth $1.00 

"We  must  give  Mr.  READ  the  credit  for  writing  the  only  good  pastoral  poem 
of  the  present  day." — Evening  Bulletin. 

"Poetically  imagined  and  beautifully  expressed." — Baltimore  American. 

"  It  will  be  welcomed  as  ihe  first  truly  American  poem.  We  predict  for  it  an 
immense  circulation.  It  must  become  one  of  the  indispensables  for  the  centre- 
table  in  America,  both  in  the  palace  and  the  cottage." — Farm  Journal. 

"  The  New  Pastoral  supplies  the  vacant  place  in  the  literature  of  America, 
which  Thomson  and  Cowper  have  filled  in  that  of  England ;  and  we  feel  proud 
of  our  young  countryman  when  we  say,  equally  well.  His  poem  is  purely 
national — American  in  its  scope,  in  its  spirit,  in  its  ideas,  and  in  the  exquisite 
pictures  of  rural  life  and  manners  which  constitute  its  chief  charm." — Reading 
Democrat. 

"  Mr.  READ  has  given  us  a  pastoral  poem  of  great  smoothness  of  versification, 
naturalness  of  thought  and  expression,  and  abounding  in  passages  of  great 
beauty ;  while  over  the  whole  is  breathed  a  spirit  of  domestic  and  rustic  quietude 
such  as  commends  it  to  the  gentler  sympathies  of  the  soul.  It  deserves  to  take 
its  place  among  the  best  of  our  fireside  poetry." — .ZV.  1".  Observer. 

"  American  literature  gets,  in  The  New  Pastoral,  a  valuable  acquisition." — 
Boston  Transcript. 

"  The  author  has,  by  this  work,  achieved  for  himself  a  high  position  among 
American  poets.  *  *  *  It  will  continue  a  '  standard'  in  the  literature  of 
his  country.  *  *  *  A  chastened  imagination  has  decked  homely  scenes 
with  all  the  charms  which  it  is  the  high  power  of  poesy  only  to  do,  and  painted 
American  rural  changes  with  a  lifelike  fidelity  which  stamps  them  forever 
upon  the  page." — Morning  News. 

"  We  have  the  '  New  Pastoral,'  from  the  pen  of  THOMAS  BUCHANAN  READ,  a 
poet  whose  name  and  fame  bid  fair  to  become  household  words  in  America.  In 
simple  and  flutelike  prolongations  of  melody  it  breathes  the  soul  of  a  new 
people,  stirred  by  new  experiences,  dwelling  m  a  fresh,  young  world." — Com 
mercial  Register. 

"  The  North  British  Review  pronounced  one  of  Mr.  READ'S  former  productions 
the  best  poem  that  had  appeared  from  an  American  author.  We  think  the 
poet's  well-merited  reputation  will  not  suffer  from  the  present  work.  It  is  rich 
in  the  elements  of  a  permanent  popularity.  The  just  appreciation  of  nature; 
the  beauty  of  description ;  the  truthful  pictures  of  simple,  rural  life;  the  delicacy 
of  sentiment;  the  overflowing  of  a  gentle,  loving  heart,  and  the  sweetly  flowing 
numbers,  cannot  fail  to  win  admirers,  and  gain  new  laurels  for  the  bard.  The 
fact  that  it  is  also,  in  all  respects,  a  home  production,  thoroughly  American  in 
all  its  incidents  and  scenery,  gives  it  additional  charms."— Presbyterian. 

"It  is  written  with  sincerity  and  feeling:  there  are  descriptions  which  have 
great  truth  of  detail,  and  the  poem  has  the  great  merit  of  a  subdued  and  natural 
tone." — Putnam's  Monthly. 

"The  lovers  of  sound  moral  sentiment  most  sweetly  expressed,  and  of  the 
bright  portraiture  of  nature  in  her  peaceful  scenes  and  moods,  will  find  in  this 
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rf  %  literate  «f  %  Into  Staits. 

BY  RUFUS  WILMOT  GRISWOLD. 

I.  THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA. 
II.  THE  FEMALE  POETS  OF  AMERICA. 
III.  THE  PROSE  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA. 

THE  POETS  AND  POETRY  OF  AMERICA, 

By  RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLD.  Containing  Biographical  and 
Critical  Memoirs,  and  the  best  Poems  of  all  the  best 
Poets.  Sixteenth  edition.  With  Portraits  on  Steel 
of  Dana,  Bryant,  Percival,  Longfellow,  Gallagher, 
Poe,  Cooke,  Lowell,  Taylor.  Carefully  revised,  re 
arranged,  much  enlarged,  and  brought  down  to  the 
year  1855.  1  vol.  royal  8vo,  cloth,  gilt  -  $3.00 

"  It  is  performing  a  valuable  service  when  a  man  of  taste  and  information 
makes  a  suitable,  well-assorted  selection,  and  guides  the  friend  of  poetry  in  his 
rambles  through  those  groves  from  which  he  might  otherwise  be  deterred  by 
their  immensity.  Such  service  has  been  rendered  by  Mr.  GRISWOLD  in  his  l  Poets 
and  Poetry  of  America.' " — From  Baron  FREDERICK  VON  RAUMER,  of  Prussia. 

f<  We  doubt  whether  there  is  another  man  in  America  who  could  have  been 
found  to  devote  so  much  industry,  not  to  say  drudgery,  as  was  called  for  in 
such  an  undertaking.  Sure  we  are  that  no  such  man  could  have  been  found 
who  would  have  done  it  so  well." — From  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer. 

"The  editor  has  executed  his  task  with  industry,  skill,  and  taste.  No  man 
in.  this  country  is  probably  so  familiar  with  this  branch  of  American  literature, 
not  only  in  regard  to  its  most  ancient,  but  most  obscure  authors." — From  the 
New  York  Evening  Post. 

"  No  collection  of  American  poetry  at  all  comparable  to  it  in  extent,  complete 
ness,  or  general  merit,  has  ever  been  issued." — From  the  Albany  Evening  Journal. 

"  Mr.  GRISWOLD  has  succeeded  as  well  in  his  book  as  the  nature  of  the  case 
admitted.  His  patient  research  and  general  correctness  of  taste  are  worthy  of 
praise ;  his  difficulties  and  temptations  would  have  extenuated  far  graver  errors 
than  he  has  committed,  and  his  volume  well  deserves  the  approbation  it  has 
received." — From  the  North  American  Review,  (by  E.  P.  WHIPPLE.) 

rtWe  must  not  forget  to  thank  Mr.  GRISWOLD  for  his  good  taste  and  good 
feeling.  It  would  be  difficult  to  overpraise  either." — From  the  London  Examiner. 

"We  think  in  this  beautiful  volume  the  reader  will  find  nearly  all  that  is 
worth  reading  in  American  poetry." — From  the  Boston  Morning  Post. 

"  Mr.  GRISWOLD'S  work  is  honourable  to  the  character  and  genius  of  the  Ameri 
can  people." — From  THOS.  CAMPBELL,  author  of  "The  Pleasures  of  Hope." 

"  The  critical  and  biographical  notes  are  brief,  but  discriminative  and  ele 
gant." — From  Bishop  POTTER'S  "Hand-Book  for  Headers." 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  FEMALE  POETS  OF  AMERICA, 

By  RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLD.  Containing  extended  Critical 
and  Biographical  Notices,  with  Poems,  Chronologi 
cally  Arranged.  Fifth  edition:  continued  to  1856. 
With  Portraits  on  Steel  of  Maria  Brooks,  Frances  S. 
Osgood,  Alice  Carey,  Julia  Ward  Howe,  &c.  1  vol. 
royal  8vo,  cloth,  gilt $3.00 

"Very  rare,  and  very  opposite,  and  very  high  abilities  are  required  for  that 
circumnavigation  of  the  whole  continent  of  literature — that  exploration  of  every 
bay,  and  river,  and  inland  lake,  with  all  their  islands — that  picturesque  repre 
sentation  of  every  peculiarity  of  the  subjects  of  research,  sketchy  yet  faithful, 
spirited  yet  minute — and,  above  all,  that  grouping  of  the  whole  in  one  historical 
picture  of  national  genius,  which  are  demanded  by  the  enterprise  which  Dr. 
GRISWOLD  has  essayed,  and  which  he  has  so  successfully  accomplished  by  a 
combination  of  knowledge  and  skill  as  uncommon  as  it  is  delightful.  His 
biographical  narratives  display  a  great  deal  of  spirit  and  tact  His  criticisms 
exhibit  a  thorough  familiarity  with  the  writings  which  he  reviews,  and  are 
animated  with  sensibilities  and  perceptions  kindred  in  their  delicacy  and  ardour 
with  that  inspiration  from  which  the  verses  themselves  have  flowed.  They  are 
searching,  truthful,  comprehensive,  and  candid  in  their  character,  and  always 
graceful  and  elegant  in  style." — From  the  New  York  Tribune. 

"  Of  all  Mr.  GRISWOLD'S  various  works,  the  present  evinces  the  greatest  triumph 
over  difficulties,  and  best  demonstrates  the  minuteness  and  the  extent  of  his 
knowledge  of  American  literature.  Very  few  of  the  women  included  in  this 
collection  have  ever  published  editions  of  their  writings,  and  a  considerable 
portion  of  the  verse  was  published  anonymously.  The  labour,  therefore,  of  col 
lecting  the  materials  of  both  the  biographies  and  the  illustrative  extracts,  must 
have  been  of  that  arduous  and  vexatious  kind  which  only  enthusiasm  for  the 
subject  could  have  sustained.  The  volume  is  an  important  original  contribu 
tion  to  the  literary  history  of  the  country ;  and  nobody,  whose  mind  is  not 
incurably  vitiated  by  prejudice,  can  make  dissimilarity  of  opinion  with  regard 
to  some  of  the  judgments  expressed  in  the  book,  a  ground  for  denying  its 
general  ability,  honesty,  and  value.  Most  of  the  materials  are  strictly  new, 
and  this  fact  of  itself  is  sufficient  to  stamp  the  work  with  that  character  which 
distinguishes  books  of  original  research  from  mere  compilations." — From  Gra 
ham's  American  Monthly  Magazine,. 

"Dr.  GRISWOLD  has  performed  the  duties  of  his  undertaking  with  a  diligence. 
a  taste,  and  a  discrimination,  which  we  doubt  whether  any  other  man  in  this 
country  could  have  equalled.  The  selections  are  copious  and  judicious,  and 
the  criticisms  upon  them  are  delicate  and  just.  A  great  deal  of  trouble  has 
obviously  been  taken  to  obtain  materials  for  the  work,  and  to  bring  together 
accurate  information  in  regard  to  the  authors.  A  very  large  portion  of  the 
poems  have  been  given  to  the  editor  expressly  for  this  collection.  The  work 
has,  therefore,  to  a  great  extent,  the  value  of  an  original  production  by  the  com 
bined  efforts  of  our  female  poets." — From  MORRIS  and  WILLIS'S  Home  Journal. 

"  It  is  an  erudite  and  elaborate  review  of  the  contributions  of  American 
women  to  that  department  of  literature  in  which  women  may  be  expected  to 
win  the  greatest  triumphs.  It  is  full  of  curious  and  entertaining  information 
and  genial  and  elegant  criticism ;  and  among  its  contents  are  nearly  one  hundred 
new  poems,  by  our  most  distinguished  female  writers." — From  t/ie.  N.  American. 


PARKY  <Sr  McMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


THE  PROSE  WRITERS  OF  AMERICA, 

With  an  Introductory  Survey  of  the  Intellectual  History, 
Condition,  and  Prospects  of  the  Country.  By  RUFUS 
W.  GRISWOLD.  Illustrated  with  Portraits  of  Edwards, 
Irving,  Audubon,  Story,  Wilde,  Prescott,  Kennedy, 
Emerson,  and  Hoffman.  1  vol.  royal  8vo,  cloth, 
gilt $3.00 

"  It  will  be  an  important  and  interesting  contribution  to  our  national  litera 
ture.  The  range  of  authors  is  very  wide,  the  biographical  notices  full  and  inte 
resting.  I  am  surprised  that  the  author  has  been  able  to  collect  so  mauy  par 
ticulars  in  this  way.  The  selections  appear  to  me  to  have  been  made  with 
discrimination,  and  the  criticism  shows  a  sound  taste  and  a  correct  apprecia 
tion  of  the  qualities  of  the  writers,  as  well  as  I  can  judge." — From  WM.  H. 
PRESCOTT,  author  of  "Ferdinand  and  Isabella." 

"  Dr.  RUFUS  W.  GRISWOLB  is  the  most  learned  bibliographer  in  the  country. 
His  book  is  a  welcome  one  to  us,  and  we  presume  will  be  so  to  the  public,  com 
pleting,  as  it  does,  the  view  of  American  literature  of  which  his  other  work — 
The  Poets  of  America — formed  the  first  part.  We  confess  that  we  do  not  agree 
with  Dr.  GRISWOLD'S  estimate  of  some  of  the  authors  whose  names  appear  in 
this  work.  We  have,  however,  been  long  enough  conversant  with  the  literary 
world,  to  tolerate  great  latitude  of  opinion  in  regard  to  the  merits  of  authors, 
and  have  ceased  long  ago  to  quarrel  with  those  who  do  not  happen  to  think  of 
our  favourite  writers  as  we  do,  or  who  praise,  as  we  imagine,  without  good 
cause.  We  are  glad  to  possess,  in  this  form,  portions  of  many  authors  whose 
entire  works  we  should  never  own,  and,  if  we  did,  should  probably  never  find 
time  to  read.  We  confess  our  obligations  to  the  author  also  for  the  personal 
information  concerning  them  which  he  has  collected  in  the  memoirs  prefixed  to 
their  writings.  These  are  written  in  a  manner  creditable  to  the  research,  ability, 
and  kindness  of  the  author." — From  the  New  York  Evening  Post,  (by  Mr.  BRYAXT.) 

"  The  design  has  been  executed  with  candour,  discrimination,  and  unques 
tionable  ability.  It  has  raised  our  opinion  of  Mr.  GRISWOLD'S  literary  powers 
far  beyond  any  estimate  which  we  had  formed  from  his  previous  efforts.  There 
is  a  range  of  sympathy,  a  variety  of  knowledge,  and  a  breadth  and  comprehen 
siveness  of  taste,  which  few  men  in  the  country  could  have  exhibited.  The 
independence  of  thought  and  fearlessness  of  criticism  which  are  displayed  are 
eminently  worthy  of  commendation,  on  a  subject  and  in  a  country  where  there 
is  so  great  a  lack  of  both.  The  introductory  sketch  is  written  with  an  ardent 
amor  patriot,  and  sets  the  literary  pretensions  of  the  country  upon  as  high  a 
ground  as  they  can  be  placed  by  any  man ;  and,  whether  it  be  that  we  partake 
of  Mr.  GRISWOLD'S  national  partiality,  or  have  been  stirred  by  his  glowing  inte 
rest,  it  has  appeared  to  us,  as  we  read,  that  his  claims  for  American  genius  and 
art  were  not  beyond  the  measure  of  truth  and  justice.  His  notices  of  several 
of  the  authors  are  as  able  specimens  of  particular  criticism  as  we  are  acquainted 
with." — From  MORRIS  and  WILLIS'S  Home  Journal. 

"  The  book  now  before  us  is  more  than  respectable :  it  is  executed  ably,  and 
in  many  parts  brilliantly.  In  some  respects  it  is  an  extraordinary  work,  such 
as  few  men  in  America,  perhaps,  except  the  author,  could  have  produced,  and 
he  only  after  years  of  sedulous  investigation  and  under  many  advantages  of 
circumstance  or  accident.  The  distribution  of  the  various  writers  into  their 
classes,  and  the  selection  of  representatives  of  each  class,  or  type,  exhibit  much 
skill." — From  the  Knickerbocker,  (by  the  late  HORACE  BINNEY  WALLACE.) 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


FORTNIGHT  RAMBLE. 

Tarn's  Fortnight  Kamble,  and  other  Poems,    By  THOMAS 
MACKELLAR.     216  pages,  12mo    -        -        -        $0.75 

"  He  is  a  man  of  genius,  with  a  heart  as  tender  as  a  woman's,  who  would 
have  been  effeminate  from  over-delicacy  of  construction,  but  for  the  masculine 
necessity  of  getting  a  livelihood.  I  like  him." — N.  P.  WILLIS. 

"Many  of  his  sonnets  bear  upon  them  the  richness  of  genius,  and  awaken 
those  feelings  which  nothing  but  true  poetry  can  arouse." — lion.  J.  R.  CHANDLER. 

"We  hesitate  not  to  pronounce  him  a  genuine  poet." — Rev.  J.  W.  ALEX 
ANDER,  D.D. 

"  Tarn  is  no  new  acquaintance,  either  to  us  or  to  our  readers ;  but  one  of  those 
"old,  familiar"  friends  who  are  cherished  in  our  heart's  core.  The  beauty  of  his 
verse,  not  less  than  of  his  sentiments,  has  endeared  him  to  thousands  on  thou 
sands  of  the  readers  of  the  Gazette;  and  not  unfrequently  his  cheerful  strains, 
his  poetry  "  tipped  with  heavenliuess,"  has  made  festival  in  many  a  sorrowing 
heart.  Tarn,  or  Mr.  MACKELLAR,  to  speak  of  him  by  his  real  name,  is  no  pretty 
trifler  in  verse,  but  an  earnest  man.  writing  on  earnest  subjects,  and  striving 
to  do  good  as  well  as  to  amuse.  Such  should  ever  be  the  high  aim  of  poetry." 
— J.  C.  NEAL,  editor  ofNeal's  Gazette. 

"  lie  touches  every  subject  with  ease  and  grace,  and  breathes  life  into  that 
which  was  before  inanimate." — Del.  Co.  Repub. 

"  Written  by  our  printer-poet,  as  the  title  indicates,  in  a  season  of  relief  from 
the  persecution  of  publishers,  printers,  and  proofs.  The  poetry  is  remarkable 
for  its  beautiful  simplicity,  high-toned  morality,  and  earnest  piety." — Rev.  Dr. 
SUMMERS. 

"  Mr.  MACKELLAR  has  in  him  the  poetry  of  pleasantry  and  pathos.  Some  pas 
sages  are  touching,  others  amusing,  and  all  evincing  sound  sense  and  discrimi 
nation.  A  religious  vein  runs  through  all,  and  the  minor  poems  are  the  breath 
ings  of  a  heart  which  seems  to  have  the  highest  enjoyments  amidst  the  domestic 
circle." — Presbyterian,  (Phila.) 

"  This  is  a  volume  of  poetry,  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word ;  true  poetry,  re 
sponsive  to  nature  and  life,  and  to  the  heart  of  man.  There  is  a  charm — it  is 
the  power  of  inspiration — the  charm  of  truth  and  nature,  and  of  poetic  feeling, 
blended  with  sacred  charity — on  almost  every  page,  which  invites  and  holds 
the  willing  eye  and  ear  of  the  reader." — Christian  Observer. 

"  He  is  a  poet  of  nature  and  of  the  home  affections,  and  he  appeals  to  the 
heart  with  a  gentle  and  persuasive  force  that  only  those  who  feel  what  they 
write  can  exercise.  It  is  refreshing  to  turn  from  the  stilted  rhymes  and  forced 
ideas  of  most  of  the  writers  of  the  present  day,  to  the  sweet  and  pleasant  thoughts 
that  come  upward  from  his  heart  to  stir  our  sympathies  and  exact  our  admira 
tion." — Evening  News. 

"  The  head  and  the  heart  of  this  author,  although  he  is  too  modest  to  make 
high  claims  for  either,  in  truth  require  no  gratuitous  commendation.  His 
muse  has  indeed  the  truth,  and  depth,  and  insight  of  poetry,  lacking  only  the 
passionateness,  fire,  and  rapture  with  which  its  sometimes  grandeur,  oftener 
giddiness,  intoxicates  the  fancy.  It  is  a  gentle,  loving,  hopeful,  healthy  hearti 
ness  that  is  the  charm  of  his  poems.  The  rhythm  is  smooth,  the  versification 
accurate,  and  the  sentiment  always  beautiful.  Extracts  made  anywhere  at  ran 
dom  from  this  book  would  show  how  just  the  character  we  ascribe  to  the 'writer, 
and  how  tame  the  nraise  we  have  given  to  his  poetry."— Dr.  ELDER. 


PARRY  &   MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


REED'S  LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  LITERATURE. 

Lectures  on  English  Literature,  delivered  in  the  Chapel 
Hall  of  the  University  of  Pennsylvania  by  Professor 
HENRY  REED.  With  a  Portrait.  Edited  by  his  brother, 
WILLIAM  B.  REED.  1  vol.  12mo,  cloth  -  $1.25 

[Extracts  of  a  letter  from  Professor  C.  C.  FELTON,  of  Harvard.] 

CAMBRIDGE,  May  21, 1855. 
GENTLEMEN  : 

I  have  read,  with  much  pleasure  and  instruction,  the  Lectures  of  the  late 
Professor  REED,  on  English  Literature,  published  by  you. 

Among  the  greatest  improvements  made  in  our  higher  schools  within  a  few 
years,  there  is  none,  in  my  opinion,  more  important  than  the  increased  atten 
tion  paid  to  the  study  of  English  Literature,  as  an  essential  element  of  educa 
tion.  *  *  *  *  As  a  guide  and  companion  in  this  department  of  education, 
the  volume  of  Professor  REED'S  Lectures  appears  to  me  truly  admirable.  The 
subject  is  treated  in  a  comprehensive  and  able  manner.  The  style  of  the  Lec 
tures  is  pure  and  graceful :  the  criticism  judicious :  the  general  principles  clearly 
stated,  and  illustrated  with  careful  thought  and  comprehensive  study:  the 
moral  and  religious  tone  is  every  thing  that  could  be  desired  for  a  work  to  be 
put  into  the  hands  of  the  young ;  and  I  know  of  no  book,  in  that  department 
of  elegant  letters,  better  suited  to  cultivate  and  purify  the  taste,  and  to  excite 
the  enthusiasm  of  pupils. 

I  am,  gentlemen,  very  respectfully,  yours,  C.  C.  FELTON. 

Messrs.  PARRY  &  MC>!ILLAX. 

"  The  book  is  in  every  way  a  most  creditable  contribution  to  the  Library  of 
Critical  Literature." — London  Leader. 

"These  Lectures  bear  the  marks  of  ripe  scholarship  and  an  accomplished 
mind." — Presbyterian. 

"The  Lectures  are  of  the  highest  order,  both  in  scholarship,  sound  sense,  and 
gracefulness  of  style,  and  show  a  thorough  mastery  of  his  subject  that  only  a 
familiar  acquaintance  with  the  original  sources  could  have  given.  There  is 
also  a  moral  purity  and  a  Christian  spirit  running  through  them  that  is  pecu 
liarly  pleasing." — Watchman  and  Observer. 

it*  *  *  *  If  any  thing  could  bring  consolation  to  the  friends  of  Professor 
REED  for  his  untimely  loss,  it  is  that  he  left  his  MSS.  in  such  a  complete  and 
scholar-like  preparation  that  the  public  will  receive  them  as  a  national  benefit. 
*  *  *  *  'j;ne  third  lecture  of  the  volume,  on  the  English  language,  is  in 
itself  a  monument  of  the  varied  and  extensive  learning  and  acquirements  of  the 
lamented  author,  which  would  hand  down  his  name  to  posterity  as  one  of  the 
gifted  of  the  nineteenth  century." — National  Intelligencer. 

"  A  posthumous  work,  and  a  noble  monument  to  the  memory  of  the  distin 
guished  Professor,  whose  loss  in  the  Arctic  created  such  an  intense  sorrow  in 
the  city  of  his  birth,  education,  and  active  life,  and  such  an  overwhelming  sense 
of  calamity  wherever  his  just  feme  had  spread." — Home  Journal. 

"  These  lectures,  or  rather  essays,  are  of  surpassing  beauty  and  excellence. 
We  know  not  where  to  look  for  a  volume  so  admirably  adapted  to  the  wants  of 
a  large  class  of  young  readers,  who  desire  to  direct  their  reading  intelligently 
and  profitably."— - Boston  Traveller. 


PARRY  &  MCMILLAN'S  PUBLICATIONS. 


LECTURES  ON  ENGLISH  HISTORY, 

As  illustrated  by  Shakspeare's  Chronicle  Plays,  and  on 
Tragic  Poetry.  By  HENRY  REED.  Edited  by  his  bro 
ther,  WILLIAM  B.  REED.  1  vol.  12mo  -  $1.25 

"  Beginning  with  the  dim  legendary  period  on  which  Lear  and  Cymbeline 
shed  a  few  rays  of  light,  Mr.  REED,  in  these  exquisite  essays — for  such,  rather 
than  lectures,  they  are — traces  the  varied  course  of  English  history  down  to  the 
verge  of  the  Poet's  own  day — the  reign  of  Henry  the  Eighth  and  the  birth  of 
Elizabeth;  and  it  is  wonderful  to  be  made  to  understand,  by  the  continuity  of 
such  a  mode  of  illustration,  how  complete  the  course  is.  Maryborough's  con 
fession  of  ignorance  was  not  so  great  as  one  is  apt  to  think,  when  he  said  that 
all  he  knew  of  English  history  he  learned  from  Shakspeare's  plays;  and  Mr. 
REED  shows  us  now  how  completa,  and  thorough,  and  accurate,  the  Poet's  know 
ledge  was.  There  is  throughout  a  happy  blending  of  criticism  and  history,  and 
withal,  in  perhaps  a  greater  degree  than  in  Mr.  REED'S  former  volume,  that 
transparency  of  style  which  reveals  in  every  page  the  pure  and  gentle  character, 
the  strong  intelligence  and  high  morality,  of  the  author.  No  one  that  begins 
this  little  book  will  lay  it  down  till  it  is  finished.  It  is,  too,  suited  to  all  tastes 
and  all  ages." — North  American. 

"We  welcome  another  valuable  contribution  to  English  IwJlrs-Mtres.  from  the 
papers  of  the  late  Professor  HENRY  REED.  With  happy  originality,  the  historical 
plays  of  Shakspeare  are  made  the  basis  of  lectures  upon  English  history — not 
the  less  instructive  because  adorned  with  all  the  graces  of  poetry.  The  theme 
is  thus  relieved  from  any  scholastic  dulness,  and  made  attractive  to  those  who 
read  for  amusement,  as  well  as  to  severe  students.  *  *  *  *  The  present 
volume  is  invested  with  much  of  the  interest  of  a  personal  memoir,  by  the  judi 
cious  introduction  of  extracts  from  the  private  correspondence  of  the  lamented 
author." — City  Item. 

"  In  this  work,  the  lovers  of  English  literature  and  English  history  again 
have  the  privilege  of  reading  the  emanations  of  one  of  the  most  cultivated  minds 
of  which  our  country  can  boast.  Professor  REED'S  style  is  beautifully  chaste  and 
powerfully  correct — possessing  none  of  those  redundances  which  are  like  a 
withered  branch,  but  close  yet  free,  elegant,  but  not  youthfully  florid.  *  *  *  * 
It  is  no  ordinary  work,  but  one  that  from  its  importance  marks  an  era  in  litera 
ture." — Pennsylvania.!!. 

"  Professor  REED  has  gained  a  transatlantic  reputation  of  which  any  one  might 
be  proud ;  and  it  is  enough  for  the  work  before  us  to  say  that  it  will  add  in  a 
high  degree  to  that  reputation.  **#•»:  These  Lectures  require  no  praise.  No 
one  can  read  them  without  adding  materially  to  his  stock  of  information,  or 
without  being  impressed  by  the  judicious  relation  of  facts,  the  taste  in  illustra 
tion,  or  the  purity  of  language  everywhere  displayed." — Bulletin. 

"These  Lectures  show  a  knowledge  not  only  of  the  text  of  England's  greatest 
bard,  but  a  deep  and  critical  examination  of  their  suggestions,  and  we  believe 
will  be  found  to  be  of  inestimable  value,  as  commentaries  upon  the  genius  of  him 
who  has  long  puzzled  the  acumen  of  scholars,  and  given  food  for  thought  to  the 
great  minds  of  every  age.  That  they  are  valuable  additions  to  the  historical 
literature  of  our  country,  no  one  wVio  knows  Professor  REED'S  ability  can  for  a 
moment  doubt.  *  *  *  *  For  the  collection  of  his  works  we  are  indebted  to  the 
affectionate  regard  of  his  brother,  WILLIAM  B.  REED,  Esq.;  and  we  cannot  take 
leave  of  the  volume  without  expressing  our  satisfaction  with  the  manner  in 
which  that  gentleman  has  executed  the  task." — Argus. 


14  DAY  USE 

RETURN  TO  DESK  FROM  WHICH  BORROWED 

LOAN  DEPT. 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below,  or 

on  the  date  to  which  renewed. 
Renewed  books  are  subject  to  immediate  recall. 


3Apr'61  SPX 

Ri-G'D  L.D 

^  i  mi 

MAY  3  01967  3  2 

M4Y1  A.  G7-10P& 

LD  21A-50m-12,'60 
(B6221slO)476B 


General  Library 

University  of  California 

Berkeley 


M2721O7  951 


QLL. 


THE  UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 


